


How King Thorin Got a Slave

by EinahSirro



Series: How King Thorin Got a Slave [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bottom Bilbo Baggins, Dark Thorin, Eventual Smut, Gold Sick Thorin, M/M, Mild BDSM, Possessive Thorin, Probably not a healthy relationship, Sexual Slavery, Spankings, Stockholm Syndrome, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 14:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 41
Words: 58,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4923334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin's company liberates Erebor and finds gold beyond imagining... and a grubby little Hobbit slave. Oh good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Look What We Found

When the Dwarves liberated Erebor (thanks to a little help from a Human archer from Laketown) they found that the treasure that awaited them was beyond their wildest dreams. They walked into the main hall and stood in wonder, gazing at the mountains of gold, their eyes wide. From the vast, glittering hoard to the beautiful vaulted ceilings their gazes traveled up and down, and around… for some time all they could do was wade into the gold, scoop it up in their dirty hands, and turn and laugh at each other in disbelief. 

The crowning moment, of course, was when Fili found a glowing white stone and hoisted it overhead with a cry. “Uncle!”

Thorin lay down the golden shield he’d been admiring and came wading through the shining hills, his boots crunching on gold coins, his blue eyes alight with joy.

With a grin, Fili tossed the Arkenstone to Thorin, who caught it and gave him a perfunctory glare for handling such a precious thing so carelessly. Perfunctory, of course, because Dwarves can catch nearly anything one tosses at them (except cats. Cats have claws. Dwarves will duck a cat—little known fact.) Then he held the gleaming, precious thing in his hands and gazed down on it in awe. 

Yes! 

Finally, his destiny was coming true: to be King Under the Mountain. He put the Arkenstone in a bag tied to his belt and gazed up at the broken, dusty throne. One of the first things he was going to do was have it repaired and the stone set in it.

But it could wait until after they had cleaned out the royal chambers and found living accommodations for themselves, and replenished their stores of food. And pumped water back into the rusty pipes and… the forges were lit! They could actually have hot baths! The king nearly groaned with pleasure at the thought. 

Thorin turned and began directing his men. There was no time like the present to set Dwalin, Balin, Oin and Gloin at work inspecting the wells and plumbing system. No time like the present to send Ori, Dori, and Nori, along with Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur with bags of gold (well armed, of course) out of the mountain and down to the refugees of Laketown to buy (at a very generous price) a few of the supplies they had escaped with. They could spare enough to feed 13 dwarves, surely, and the gold would enable them to turn and buy much more from the Elves.

Thorin’s generosity had limits, of course, but even in his gold-hunger he realized that you cannot eat gold, and there are no gardens or wild game under the mountain. Unless you liked roasted rat.

“Buy clothing, too,” he shouted after them as they left (because Bombur would just buy food if you didn’t remind him.)

Fili and Kili remained with Thorin to inspect the royal chambers and see what needed to be done.

“Is it like you remember?” Kili asked Thorin, as they stood and gazed around at the dusty rooms. There was surprisingly little damage… the doors were off their hinges, and furniture was overturned from the haste in which the Dwarves had left all those years ago. But other than an overall air of abandonment and disarray, it was quite as he remembered.

Thorin nodded absently. “Light the torches on the wall and we’ll get a better look.”

Soon the rooms were well lit and the furniture set upright. Fili and Thorin were shaking out blankets in the main hall when Kili came sprinting out with an odd look on his face. “Uncle. I’ve found something.”

Thorin threw the blanket over his wide shoulder and returned to the royal chambers. Kili stood and pointed at something in a corner. It looked like a pile of dirty furs at first, but after a moment he realized that there was a pale, thin face staring at him from the shadows. It was a smooth, hairless face, surrounded by matted curls. The large eyes blinked once or twice, but the mouth remained closed and the creature did not move.

“What in the name of Mahal,” Thorin muttered, and took a candle from the mantelpiece to hold up toward the creature huddled in the furs. He stepped closer. The creature eyed him alertly but neither moved forward nor back. It seemed to be waiting to see whether he was friend or foe.

“What are you?” Thorin finally asked, crouching down for a better look.

The creature cleared its throat. “Hobbit,” he creaked, as if he hadn’t spoken in a very long time. “Ahem. Um.” He swallowed and said more loudly. “Hobbit. Bilbo Baggins. Of the Shire.”

“Hobbit,” Thorin mused doubtfully, looking him over. He’d seen Hobbits. They were generally plump, clean, merry little creatures; rather childlike… he’d never seen a dirty, starving one before. It was rather a pitiable sight.

Thorin raised his eyebrows and looked over his shoulder at Kili and Fili. They were regarding the Hobbit with the same doubtful, puzzled look as he. After a moment, Fili withdrew his water bag and passed it to Thorin, who offered it to the Hobbit.

The dirty creature croaked a polite “Thank you” and downed the water immediately. After he’d swallowed a few times, and coughed a bit, and taken a deep breath, he handed the water bag back. “Much better. Thank you.”

Thorin regarded him, bemused. “Why are you hiding in that corner?” He asked.

The Hobbit shuffled and then reached behind him, holding up a long iron chain. “I’m not hiding, I can’t… can’t really leave.”

Thorin stood, lit the torches in that corner, and then returned to the pile of furs. Sure enough, there was a collar around the Hobbit’s neck and the chain, though long, was attached to a ring on the wall that allowed him only about ten feet of movement.

“I don’t understand.” Thorin remarked, staring down at the chain.

“I am… I was captured by Orcs. Years ago. They sold me to Smaug, and I’ve been here ever since.” The Hobbit explained.

“You’re a slave?” Thorin clarified pointedly.

Bilbo cocked his head in a nervous, acceding gesture. “I was… I mean… Smaug is dead now, isn’t he? I overheard you talking…”

Thorin looked over at his nephews in some amusement. “We have a slave!”

Bilbo’s mouth opened and closed several times. Then he fell silent.

Fili and Kili looked at each other. “I guess he’s part of the treasure.” Said Fili, in a tone of mild surprise.

“What can you do?” Kili asked Bilbo, as if it were a job interview.

Bilbo blinked at them several times. He seemed stunned.

Thorin picked up one of the Hobbit’s hands and assessed it. “Soft,” he remarked, dropping it again. “Probably domestic work. Can you cook?”

“Yes, but—“ Bilbo stammered.

“But what? Not well?” Thorin pressed, eyebrows raised again.

“No, I mean, I can cook, but… I rather thought…. I rather thought you would let me go.” Bilbo finally said, gazing up at the Dwarf king pleadingly.

Thorin stared back down at him, honestly curious. “Why would I do that?”

Bilbo’s eyes grew huge. “Um… it’s…. the right thing to do?”

Thorin put his hands on his hips. “Right to set a starving, ragged slave loose in the world and wish him good luck? I disagree. You’ll serve me. You’ll find I am probably a better master than an Orc or a dragon.”

He turned away as if the matter were settled and went back to beating blankets. As he passed Kili, he said shortly, “Feed him. He’s too weak to do much yet.”

He exited the royal chambers with his usual majestic stride, and the Hobbit stared after him with large, stricken eyes. But a moment later, when Kili dropped a bag of nuts and jerky, unleavened bread and dried fruit in his lap, his attention diverted to the food. Smaug had only fed him the remnants of his own infrequent kills, and the Hobbit had gotten accustomed to eating very little. Dried fruit was a treat.


	2. So Here We Are

When Thorin finally retired for the night, he was pleased with himself. He and his company of Dwarves had searched out every cavern, re-established running water and replaced several rusted out pipes with pieces scavenged from areas they needed not use yet. Torches and lanterns were filled with fuel from the barrels stored down near the forges, dusted of cobwebs and lit. Fireplaces were blazing, and several chambers were swept out and clean enough to sleep in. Balin and his party had brought back a rather impressive cache of food, from dried goods to fresh fish, and the Men of Laketown were happy enough for the bargaining power the Dwarves had imparted. 

Erebor was coming to life. Of course, a team of 200 would accomplish this more quickly than a team of 13, but he had sent word by crow to his cousin Dain Ironfoot, and he was sure of volunteers enough in about a week. Meanwhile, they needed to take inventory of the gold before any other claimants showed up. Because not for one moment did Thorin forget who had helped him, and who had not.

What he did forget was that there was a skinny, sad, miserable Hobbit chained to the wall in his bedchamber.

Thorin entered the royal suite, swinging back the heavy, newly hung door on its hinges. He was still holding a bowl of hot, buttery fish stir-fried with well-salted vegetables, licking his fingers appreciatively. The fire in his fireplace crackled homily, and candles and torches lit the room comfortably. Thorin sat the bowl on the table, his stomach well full, and strode about the room, looking around with bittersweet nostalgia. This had actually been his father’s room…

The clanking of a chain, and movement in the corner, distracted him from his thoughts. He looked over to see the Hobbit, still dirty and bedraggled looking, standing at the length of his chain and staring hungrily at the bowl on the wooden table over by the fireplace.

“Oh yes. My new slave. Forgot you entirely,” Thorin admitted, sitting down to pull off his boots. He flexed his bare toes happily and set the heavy boots aside. Then he regarded the Hobbit, who stood twining his hands unhappily, his bare feet shifting nervously on the cold stone floor.

Thorin sighed and fixed him with a serious look from under his thick, straight brows.

“If I unchain you, and you attempt to leave this room, I tell you now I will catch you, bring you back, and punish you severely,” Thorin began. He well how to deal with slaves: you made everything very simple and very clear. “Do you understand?”

The Hobbit nodded hopefully. Thorin launched himself up from his seat wearily. “Very well, let’s have a look at this collar….”

He bent over the cringing Hobbit, his long black hair falling over his shoulders and tickling Bilbo’s face. It only took Thorin a moment to see the sort of Dwarvish latch that worked it, and he released Bilbo from the collar. Then he stepped back with his long nose wrinkled up, because the Hobbit rather stunk.

“Here,” he said abruptly, handing the little creature his discarded bowl of hot buttered fish and vegetables. “Eat that. I’m drawing a bath, and we’ll both be better for it.”

Thorin pushed the Hobbit before him into the bathing chamber. Bilbo was eagerly scooping up the food with his dirty fingers, which fact caused Thorin to shake his head with disapproval. But he left his bedraggled new slave slurping food in the corner while he cranked the rusty spigots and listened to the pipes as the empty rumble turned slowly to a gurgling splash. Finally the faucet belched red, rusty water into the sooty bathtub.

The Dwarf grabbed a dusty golden pitcher from a shelf over the tub, rinsed it, and filled it with dirty water, splashing it around the tub to rinse away the years of accumulated silt. At one point he glanced over his shoulder at the Hobbit.

“You see this? This will be one of your duties soon, Hobbit. Regard how I’m rinsing this tub. This is called drawing a bath. It doesn’t look like it was ever a specialty in your family, but I’ll expect you to know how to do it,” he finished drily.

Bilbo paused in his eating and lifted his head, leveling an intent look at his new master.

“I am perfectly aware,” he said with unexpected conciseness, “how to bathe.”

Thorin looked him over; waiting as the water gradually lost its red tint and ran clear.

“I do not see the evidence,” he said pointedly.

Bilbo finished the food and glanced around for a place to set down the bowl. “You spend a few years in slavery to Orcs and dragons, and we’ll see how you look,” he muttered.

Thorin gave an amused snort and turned back to the tub. Yes. Clear, hot water. He turned off the tap, let the tub empty, and then placed the plug in the drain and twisted the spigots again. Then he strode out of the room, taking the empty bowl from Bilbo’s hands as he went.

“Monitor the tub and inform me when my bath is ready,” he instructed carelessly, “and wash your hands, at least.” Then he went to the bedchamber to remove his layers of armor and fur, and place them carefully in his father’s ancient wardrobe.

Bilbo watched him go and breathed, “Yes, Master Thorin.” Then he turned his attention to the tub. He looked around for soap. There wasn’t any soap. He was just going to inform Thorin there wasn’t any soap when the Dwarf returned and silently thrust a small bag into Bilbo’s dirty hands. Then he exited the bathing chamber again. Bilbo opened the bag and peered in, and the scent of a strong lye soap drifted up to him. It wasn’t perfumed or dainty; it was the type Dwarven women made with lard, vinegar, and ashes, and then cut into unattractive grey bricks. But it was soap!! 

Bilbo dug it out eagerly, and set to sniffing in the other bottles clanking in the bag. Ointments and solvents and … oh my, things he had missed dreadfully. He rolled up the grey, dirty rags that were all that was left of his shirtsleeves and scrubbed his hands and face in the hot running water filling the tub. Then he sat back on his heels to consider his current situation.

Well. At least he wasn’t hungry now. And Dwarves were definitely less abusive – so far – than Orcs and dragons. He looked around for towels and found a basket full of them, actually sealed so that they weren’t covered in cobwebs and dust. That was nice, he admitted. He’d never noticed them before. If you aren’t given the means to bathe, you don’t tend to hunt for towels. That and Smaug usually kept him on a leash.

Dwarves really did have a rather advanced culture, in some ways. Flushing toilets, running water. Hobbits had always tended toward wells and outhouses. Simple living… of course, when you live near sea level, such things will do. Carving a home out of a mountain, he had to concede, required some ingenuity. And Dwarves did possess ingenuity. Forges, plumbing systems, ways to cut stone and smelt metal… Hobbits were more for wood and bricks. Bilbo supposed each race had its specialty.

With a start, he realized that the tub was full. He cranked closed the spigots and trotted out to inform the King Under the Mountain that his bath was ready.

To his bestartlement, Thorin was very nearly naked by the fire. He’d removed his rings, shucked his heavy velvet jacket and rough woolen clothing, and dropped them on the floor nearby. Bilbo supposed it would be his job to pick them up. Now the Dwarf king sat on a chair near the hearth in nothing but small clothes. He was removing the clasps from the ends of his long braids and running his fingers through his hair to unravel it. 

Bilbo stood for a moment and stared at the figure by the fire. It was rather nice to see someone normal looking again. Orcs were terrifying in their ugliness, pale as rotting corpses and not smelling much better. The dragon had been scaly, and huge (although not a bad conversationalist when he was in a good mood.) But here were well-shaped arms and legs of a normal, golden-pink tint. Here were some rather magnificent tresses of hair sweeping attractively with the Dwarf’s slow, deliberate movements. Thorin turned and fixed him with those large, hooded blue eyes.

“Well?” He prompted.

“Ready,” Bilbo said, snapping to attention. May as well cooperate for the moment. One never knew… anything, really.

Thorin gave him a look that said he was up to what ever trick a slave might pull, and then strode past him to the tub.

“Come,” he said.

Bilbo hesitated, having not expected that the Dwarf would want a Hobbit staring at him while he bathed. 

But apparently he did, so Bilbo followed Thorin into the bathing chamber to… what? Stare at him while he bathed?


	3. Bathing Duties

Thorin dropped the last of his clothes without ceremony and stepped calmly into the tub while Bilbo admired the high, round curves of… the ceiling. Really magnificent how they’d carved those arches to swoop down and form hooks for the lanterns. Truly artistic. That was talent, that was.

“You can look now,” Thorin’s deep voice startled Bilbo from his solemn contemplations.

He looked to find the Dwarf sunk deep into the hot water, his head lolling happily on the back of the tub, and a definite smirk on his thin lips. Dwarves are not particularly prudish. They aren’t exhibitionists, necessarily, but a well-built male Dwarf rarely objects to anyone knowing how many muscles, scars, and tattoos he has. And to be nude in front of a servant, particularly this little alien, was as nothing.

But it did amuse him to see that it was not nothing to the Hobbit. Funny little creature.

Thorin slid down until his head was submerged, and then came back up again, blissfully letting the hot water roll off his face and stream down his hair and back. Bilbo looked on rather enviously.

“Cloth.” Thorin said, at length, and held out his hand expectantly.

“Oh,” Bilbo fluttered about for a moment and then located one of the smaller towels. That ought to do. He placed it in the Dwarf’s large, outstretched hand.

“Soap,” Thorin prompted, and Bilbo handed it over and then watched as the Dwarf scrubbed his face and beard vigorously. When he was done, he rinsed his face, gave a blowing sigh of satisfaction, and then turned to Bilbo. “You may scrub my back now.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. _Oh, I may, may I?_ “Um—“ he stammered, and the Dwarf handed him the cloth rather impatiently and leaned forward. Bilbo approached on tiptoes and tried to think of how to scrub that large back without any unseemly touching. He was afraid to get too close to the brooding Dwarf. Wet, naked, brooding Dwarf with beautiful hair.

“Today,” Thorin advised.

Hastily, Bilbo wrapped the wet cloth around his hand, rubbed it with soap, and began scrubbing. Thorin relaxed immediately, and then barked, “Harder!”

Bilbo tried to put some muscle into it, but he was leaning so gingerly over the tub from such a safe and respectable distance, he lost his balance and his free hand fell on the king’s wet shoulder to catch himself. He froze in horror.

“That’s right, put your back in it,” Thorin encouraged him, and so Bilbo took a deep breath, held onto the royal shoulder, and scrubbed the royal back for all he was worth. Thorin gave several approving grunts.

Bilbo rinsed him off carefully and the Dwarf leaned back again. “Good. Now the front.”

There was a nervous pause while Bilbo adjusted to the idea of scrubbing that furry chest while those blue eyes watched him. Then he swallowed and stepped up, frowning in concentration and not making eye contact.

Thorin’s lazy amusement was not lost on him.

After he’d scrubbed the Dwarf’s chest, and arms, and under them, one after another, Thorin stood up in the tub, the water cascading off him. Bilbo stepped back, averting his eyes, looking for the towel, when he became aware that Thorin was waiting expectantly for… him to … keep scrubbing? Down?

He finally managed to look the Dwarf in the eye. His Hobbity nose gave a tense wriggle and his mouth opened and closed the way it did when he was truly out of his depth.

Finally he simply handed the cloth over in a silent gesture of defiance. _I am not scrubbing your privates,_ he thought, clenching his teeth. The Dwarf chuckled and took the cloth, attending to that bit himself while Bilbo turned away and tried to figure out which little container held liquid soap for the hair.

There was a splash behind him as Thorin sank back into the water and held up a large foot. “Come, Hobbit, you aren’t afraid of my toes, are you?”

Face burning, Bilbo scrubbed the king’s feet, and then was directed back to the head of the tub to attend that long, rippling black hair.

This part was not unpleasant. Bilbo had an appreciation for fine hair, and the king’s was fine indeed. Long, thick, and around the forehead, several dramatic streaks of pure silver flowed back and faded into the mass of dark. He massaged the king’s scalp and lathered the hair until Thorin finally gave him a raised-eyebrow look that made him turn pink again.

When the ordeal was finally over, Bilbo found that it wasn’t over. Thorin pulled the plug and let half the gray water run out, and then plugged the tub again and added fresh hot water for soaking. His feet were going to turn into prunes, Bilbo mused.

The tub filled again, and Thorin gestured for Bilbo to approach. _What now,_ he thought as the Dwarf held out his hand with a sidelong glance toward the unsuspecting Hobbit. _Manicure?_

Suddenly his master seized Bilbo by one arm and then leaned out of the tub to swoop another powerful arm under his slave’s hip. With no time to even shriek, Bilbo found himself, clothes and all, submerged in the tub between the Dwarf king’s thick legs.

For a moment, Bilbo did an excellent impersonation of a cat that has been tossed into a pond and wants out very badly. But Thorin had hold of him and was laughing wholeheartedly at his panic. Finally he calmed.

“These are my only clothes,” he fumed.

“That explains much,” Thorin answered, still grinning. Bilbo looked around at him and noticed for the first time how white his teeth were. “Take them off and let them lay at the bottom. If they soak long enough, they may be salvageable.”

Bilbo hesitated, torn between the desperate desire to finally be clean again, for the first time literally in years, and the mortifying idea of being naked in the tub with the King Under the Mountain (and apparently his new Master.)

“Hurry.” Came the deep, smooth voice behind him. “I cannot bear the smell of your hair much longer. I’ve killed wild game that smelled better than you.” 

Bilbo struggled out of his wet clothes, shoving them to the end of the tub, and dunked his head in the hot water. He held that position for a moment, holding his breath, squeezing his eyes shut, and moving his hair back and forth in the water, feeling it loosen as the dirt and mats came free.

When he finally came up, sputtering and wiping his face, Thorin’s hands attacked his hair with great handfuls of liquid soap. “By Mahal, what a rat’s nest,” the king muttered, scrubbing at Bilbo as if he were a dirty tureen. Bilbo cringed and held still, keenly aware that he was sitting between a naked Dwarf’s knees. Behind him was… Dwarves are bigger than Hobbits in general. Thorin was large even for a Dwarf. And Dwarves were… stocky. Thick. Solid. All over.

And there really wasn’t a single thing Bilbo could grab hold of to make sure that Thorin’s enthusiastic (and not very gentle) scrubbing wouldn’t make him drift backward until his Hobbity buttocks were slap up against the Dwarven Jewels. 

Thorin gave him a slight push on the shoulder, signaling for him to dunk and rinse his hair. When Bilbo came up again, Thorin was waiting with that soapy cloth, apparently intent on showing his slave exactly how one gives a thorough, top to toe scrubbing.

“I—I can do this myself,” Bilbo protested ardently, but the Dwarf just scoffed and started scrubbing the Hobbit’s smooth back. Bilbo hunched over protectively, his mind racing as he tried to determine in advance how he was going to handle it if Thorin’s hands came around to the front and he started sliding backward.

In the end, Bilbo didn’t handle anything. He yelped and squirmed in mortification and alarm as Thorin gave him a no-nonsense scrubbing that left no stone unturned, and brought him several times right up against furry bits and private parts, and there was a great deal of splashing. And at least once Thorin got his fingers somewhere that made Bilbo give the kind of shriek one associates with a rabbit’s last moments.

When Thorin finally allowed the scandalized Hobbit out of the tub, there was water everywhere and the Dwarf was chuckling as if he had not had such entertaining sport in months. Bilbo scurried to wrap his nakedness up in towels and huddled on a stool near by, glaring from under his dripping curls as the Dwarf pulled himself up out of the tub, majestically naked, and strode past him to grab a towel.

“In the future, we will bathe separately,” Thorin assured him, rubbing his chest dry in lazy motions. “That is, if I do not think you need my help again. But I will expect you to dry me off after this. Part of your duties,” he explained, still smiling, and left the royal bathing chamber to pad damply back to the fireplace, unconcerned that his slave had a fine view of the tight muscles of the royal buttocks.

“And wipe up the floor,” his deep voice floated back to Bilbo.

Bilbo sat for a moment and just concentrated on his breathing. Finally, when he was calm enough to function, he scrubbed his curls with the towel, fingered them into place, and then dropped the damp towel to the floor. After risking a quick peek to make sure no grinning Dwarf would be watching him mop up the floor, naked, Bilbo gave the floor a quick once over with the towel, hung it over a stone rack to dry, and then grabbed a new, dry towel to wrap himself in. His clothes he left soaking in the now-very-grimy bathwater.

Finally, Bilbo ventured timidly from the bathing chamber, uncertain what to do next. To his relief, Thorin was dressed in a long white night shirt and some sort of thin, loose white cotton pants that came down to his thick, well-shaped calves. 

“Here,” the Dwarf tossed Bilbo a similar long shirt, but no pants. Well, the shirt would cover him to his knees. Still, a little something underneath would soothe the Hobbit’s outraged modesty. But nothing was offered. He vowed to pick through the Dwarf’s possessions the moment he was able and start building a hoard to guard what privacy he had left.

Well, he reflected, scuttling around behind Thorin to quickly pull on the night shirt and drop the towel, at least he was finally clean. Oh my, was he clean. Every inch of him… suddenly he froze. Was there a reason the Dwarf king wanted him so very clean?

Bilbo paled. He’d heard stories about Dwarves. They could be… very bawdy. Earthy. Open about the functions of the body, both sexual and toilet. Dwarves weren’t above public sex, or a farting contest, for that matter. 

Hobbits, in general, were not bawdy. Playful, witty, cheerful… but not bawdy. In fact, they were quite modest in certain matters. (A Hobbit will explode before he farts in front of anyone – little known fact.) So it stood to reason that in matters of sex, nudity, bodily functions et al, they regarded Dwarves as rather risqué creatures. To be particularly avoided when drinking in large numbers. 

He gave an uneasy glance over his shoulder to where Thorin sat by the fire, drying his hair in its warmth.

The evening wasn’t over yet.


	4. Evening Duties

There was a rap at the door, and at Thorin’s deep summons, it opened and Fili came in. He too was dressed for the night in loose, thin clothing.

“We put the clean sheets and blankets on your bed for you, Uncle,” Fili said, and Thorin glanced over in approval. 

“Well done. In the future, the Hobbit will see to such matters, but I’m glad you did not wait for me to train him.” He smirked, still running his fingers through his wet tresses. “It may be a long process,” he told his nephew, who looked over at Bilbo and smiled.

“He looks better clean,” he grinned, and Bilbo flushed as the two Dwarves discussed him as if he could not hear them.

“Is there anything else before I go?” Fili asked, being a model of familial duty.

Thorin stood and took a quick survey of the room. Then he pointed at the filthy bundle of furs in the corner where they’d first found Bilbo.

“Take them away and burn them,” he commented.

Bilbo protested, “That’s my bed.”

Thorin glanced at him. “I didn’t scrub you clean just to have you crawl back into that disgusting nest. What is that next—is that a chamber pot??” He looked horrified. 

“Get rid of that,” he told Fili.

Fili looked as though he didn’t think he ought to have to touch such a thing.

Bilbo heaved a sigh. “I’ll take care of it,” he muttered, and trotted over, picked up the pot (the lid was on it, honestly.) He took it to the bathing chamber, emptied it into the toilet, rinsed it, and hid it in far corner cabinet. Then he washed his hands fastidiously, being both pleased to finally have access to hot running water and soap, and eager to show the arrogant Durin family that Hobbits are perfectly clean creatures when they are allowed to be.

When he returned, Fili and the bundle of furs he’d curled in so miserably year after year were gone. His eyes swept the room, wondering where he was going to sleep now. The only soft, accommodating surface was Thorin’s bed, and surely… not… hm.

Bilbo loitered a bit and then crept to the table to see if there was anything else edible. To his delight, just then the door opened again and an old, white haired Dwarf brought in a tea service. He sat it down on the table and turned to his king.

“Kili said you wanted--- what is that??” The old Dwarf was staring at Bilbo.

“Excellent. Oh, my new slave. Hobbit. He came with the treasure.” Thorin said easily, lifting the cover of the platter to admire the hot biscuits therein. “This is marvelous, Balin, where did you ever?”

“Oh, Bombur, you know. Give him flour, lard, and butter and he’ll make you a feast,” Balin’s eyes went back to Bilbo, who stared mournfully at the biscuits.

“Are you sure it’s a Hobbit?” He asked Thorin. “I’ve never seen one so skinny. He looks more like a midget elf.”

Thorin glanced back at the forlorn figure in the long white nightshirt. His curls, at least, had dried and had a vibrant texture and bounce to them, but Balin was right. He looked like a hollow-eyed wraith.

“What is your name again,” he asked, biting into a hot, buttery biscuit, watching the Hobbits eyes follow his fingers.

The Hobbit lifted his head and said, “Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End, the Shire,” with all the dignity he could muster. Thorin gave a little smile.

“Well, come have some tea and biscuits, Bilbo Baggins. You still have work to do tonight. Can’t have you fainting away.”

“Hmp,” Balin gave a chuckle, “not enough there to eat.” He commented, and he didn’t mean the tea, he meant Bilbo’s frail form.

“Indeed,” Thorin agreed, pouring honey onto a biscuit and handing it to Bilbo as he slowly approached the table. Offended, Bilbo would have liked to throw that biscuit in the Dwarf king’s face. But neither his hunger nor his manners would allow that, so he simmered inside and took the biscuit, closing his eyes in bliss as he sank his teeth into it.

“Well, I believe I’ll turn in, laddie,” Balin said, and he and Thorin gave each other a contented nod before the old Dwarf exited the royal chambers.

Bilbo sidled closer to the table, and Thorin reached out with one foot and pushed back a chair. “Sit,” he said, and Bilbo wasn’t sure if it was an invitation or an order, but one sits to take tea, and it had been so long since he’d been allowed to sit at a table and eat and drink like a normal Hobbit, he slid into the chair immediately.

Thorin actually played host for him, albeit a silent host, pouring tea, passing him sugar and cream, drizzling honey on another biscuit and putting it on a plate for him. Suddenly Bilbo got a bit teary-eyed, and wasn’t sure why. He fought down the lump in his throat and consumed the tea and biscuits until he was satisfied. Then he sat back carefully, not wanting his shrunken stomach to suddenly send up a loud belch.

Thorin gave him a visual once-over. “I’ll have to feed you up,” he commented, and took another sip of tea. Then he stretched out his strong legs and added, “If you’ve finished your tea, take this pot of salve and come work it into my hair, or I’ll have a beard on my head in the morning.”

Bilbo’s heart rate sped up just a tiny bit. More touching, then. More touching the Dwarf who considered him part of his treasure, his creature to do as he saw fit with. Bilbo stood, very aware that he was wearing nothing but a long shirt, and that the Dwarf king was a virile, intense, muscular creature with beautiful hair and no qualms about… much of anything, apparently.

Biting his lower lip, Bilbo decided that being as unobtrusive as possible was his best defense. Sometimes Smaug had forgotten about him for days at a time. Because Hobbits can be quiet.

So, quietly, Bilbo took the little pot from the Dwarf king’s fingers, scooped out some sweet scented ointment, and rubbed it between his palms a bit.

“Start at the bottom,” Thorin recommended sleepily, lazily taking another biscuit from the table and sitting back comfortably. Bilbo waited until the king was settled and then began working the softening lotion into that mane of hair.

Silence fell. The fire crackled. Bilbo began gingerly, but as the moments wore on and Thorin neither moved nor spoke, the Hobbit began to relax and concentrate on his task. He gathered up the shining black tresses and worked his fingers into them more deeply, ensuring they were all coated, but not too much. He gently picked out the few tangles, and finger combed each section till his fingers ran freely through. When he worked his way up to the scalp and slid his fingers into the skin, Thorin let out an appreciative rumble, rather like Smaug would do when he found a particularly pretty gem in his hoard. 

Bilbo halted nervously, coming back to his senses. He’d been… sort of… caressing the king’s scalp.

“Don’t stop,” Thorin breathed, barely above a whisper, and Bilbo quickly resumed his massaging strokes of the royal head. “Mmmmm…..” came that deep-throated growl again. Bilbo swallowed and continued moving his fingers slowly and surely, aware that he was creating his own fate. If this sort of thing made Dwarves randy, he was … in for it tonight.

He contemplated dropping the hair and sprinting for the door at a dead run. Then, wryly, he imagined his oiled hands slipping helplessly off the latch as the king strolled up behind him with a mocking smile. “Going somewhere, little slave?”

Rather than play out that ludicrous scenario, Bilbo licked his lips nervously and kept rubbing. Maybe Thorin would fall asleep.


	5. Nighttime Arrangements

To Bilbo’s profound relief, Thorin did actually doze off beneath the Hobbit’s hypnotically slow ministrations. When he heard the faintest of snores, he slowed his touch still more until he was able to, very gradually, withdraw his fingers from that black waterfall of hair and silently step backward from the chair.

The Dwarf king slumbered peacefully, and Bilbo admired his profile in the firelight for a moment. High forehead, long, prominent nose, strong chin but not jutting. Brows like straight wings slanting away at the corners. He must be a relatively young Dwarf, Bilbo thought, rubbing the residual oil on his hands into his own hair. Oh, that was nice. Made it softer.

It really was a pleasure to regard a face like Thorin’s. Bilbo’s eyes wandered down to the hands resting limply on the armrests of the chairs. Strong fingers, but not blunt or clumsy. He wiped his own hands on his night dress and startled when the king suddenly awoke with a sniff.

“Mmp. You have magic hands, Hobbit,” he commented drowsily. Bilbo held very still. “I’m quite ready for bed. Go turn the sheets down,” he said, leaning over to the table and draining the last of the tea from his cup.

Bilbo went to the bed and discovered that he needed the stool from the bathing chambers to get enough height to turn the bed down with any grace. He lugged out the stool and placed it, stepping up to turn down the bed, all the while wondering where he was expected to sleep. Perhaps the foot of the bed. Yes. Okay. That might work. It was, after all, a very large bed.

He finished and turned to see Thorin smiling down at him. Even with Bilbo standing on the stool, the dwarf had a bit of a height advantage. “You do look like a midget elf,” he said with what almost seemed like a touch of affection. Bilbo suddenly felt pinned under that blue gaze. It had been so long since anyone smiled at him without sadistic intent. 

“Alright, in you go,” Thorin said sleepily, and to Bilbo’s alarm, gave the Hobbit a light smack on the buttocks. Blinking rapidly, Bilbo could think of nothing but to crawl into the bed and slink under the covers as far to the opposite edge as he could. He pulled the covers up but that made his nightshirt ruck up, and he gave a desperate squirm as he tried to shimmy the edges back down again with his hands. Thorin watched his jerky movements with some puzzlement. “What.” He said.

Bilbo glanced over at him. “Um… do you have any… extra… you know, to wear…”

Thorin cocked his head quizzically. 

“Um… I mean… something like those.” He pointed to the dwarf’s pants.

Sighing, Thorin turned to the bundles of clothing that lay on the chest of drawers in the corner. He picked at them a moment and then found a small pair of white cotton shorts, which he brought back and tossed to Bilbo.

“Thank you,” Bilbo gasped in true gratitude, and squirmed into them under the covers. It was a vast relief to have that thin veil of modesty over his groin and between his legs. Adult Hobbits don’t really like to be naked.

Thorin was smiling again. “You are a funny little thing,” he commented, and then went to turn down the lamps that hung about the chamber. Bilbo watched nervously as one light after the other went out, and the room grew darker and darker. Finally, nothing was left but the glow of the fire in the hearth, and a candle by the bed. Thorin came to the bed, crawled in beside Bilbo, and gave a long, lengthening, luxurious stretch.

When he’d completed that, he rolled his head on the pillow to look at Bilbo.

“I should put the collar back on so you don’t sneak away while I’m sleeping.”

Suddenly, Bilbo’s eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear to be clean, and fed, and treated with relative decency, and then chained up again. He swallowed and let his shimmering eyes speak for him.

Thorin lifted his head up and stared at him. The Dwarf looked a little disconcerted at the teary-eyed face peering up at him. “Well,” he rumbled, “If you promise solemnly—“

“I do,” Bilbo quavered, ashamed of himself, but unable to help it.

“Very well,” Thorin said, clearly too sleepy to want to exert himself much further. He sank down on his pillow and threw one arm over to Bilbo, letting his hand fall on the Hobbit’s arm in a possessive manner. “Sleep well,” he mumbled, and rolled his head away. He licked the fingers of his other hand and, with only a slightly awkward reach, pinched out the candle. The room was dark. 

Bilbo waited to see what would follow, but shortly he heard a faint almost-snore from the pillow next to him and decided that it was safe to relax and fall asleep. And so, for the first time in years, fed, clean, and comfortable, Bilbo Baggins turned on his side, facing his new Master, drew up his legs, and went to sleep with his arm still under the hand that claimed it.


	6. Morning Duties

Bilbo woke hours later to find that Thorin had turned in the night and thrown an arm over him. Beyond that, the Dwarf had not encroached. He was still asleep, face buried firmly in the pillow, one thick brow visible, but otherwise, the view was mostly hair. 

There were no windows underground, but the Dwarves had, years ago, drilled small holes through the rock and, sometimes with the aid of tiny mirrors placed with a long pole, had managed to find a way to filter in small streams of daylight. It was clearly not meant to be bright, merely a timepiece measure that allowed one to look up and see a single beam of light announcing that outside, the sun was up. 

Bilbo had wondered at a race of people who could be content with that tiny bit of sun, but after years of entrapment in the mountain, he was accustomed to it. Still, he thought, laying under Thorin’s heavy arm, looking at the single beam of light that projected across the floating dust to cast a single circle on the opposing wall… it would be nice to go outside. Maybe his new master would allow it.

Bilbo shifted slightly, enjoying the feel of clean sheets and a pillow. Of course, he didn’t accept being a slave. Sooner or later, when he’d regained his strength, he’d make a bid for his freedom. 

But at the moment, laying there under the blankets, clean and warm, with the sweet scent from Thorin’s hair oil filling his nostrils, Bilbo had to admit… he wasn’t feeling a burning urge to make a run for it.

A tap at the door made him glance over at Thorin, who was still out like a snuffed candle, and he slid from under the arm and went and opened the door to find a Dwarf in a ridiculous hat holding a tray laden with food.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Blimey, what are you?” Asked the Dwarf in astonishment.

“Hobbit,” Bilbo said briefly. “What are you?”

“Dwarf,” said the other candidly. “Toy-maker,” he added.

Bilbo nodded. “Not a hat-maker.”

“Oy, my mother gave me this.” Said the Dwarf.

“Not her favorite child, then,” Bilbo said, straight-faced.

The Dwarf’s face split into a huge grin, “Not by a long shot.” He admitted.

Bilbo grinned too, because this one was just funny. He backed up and let the Dwarf bring in the breakfast. The Dwarf placed the tray and turned to Bilbo, offering his hand. “Bofur,” he said abruptly.

It had been a long time since anyone had shook Bilbo Baggins’ hand, and he took the offered mitt with a grand smile. “Bilbo,” he returned, forgoing the more formal response.

“Ey, that’s almost a normal name!” Said the Dwarf in the bizarre hat.

“Is it?” Bilbo asked, enjoying this fellow for some reason.

“Not like Elves. Oh, the names they have. Toe-ree-ell, that’s Kili’s heart-throb,” Bofur confided, eyes twinkling. “Leg-o-lass… that’s a male, if you can believe it.”

“Oh, that’s bad. Does he have legs like a lass?” Bilbo asked.

Bofur gave his own fingers a kiss, “He’s beautiful. Practically a girl with a dick.”

Bilbo nearly doubled over laughing, and suddenly he heard a noise behind him. Thorin had awoken and pulled himself up to lean on the pillows.

“Bofur, help this useless creature get the tray from that table to my lap,” called the deep voice, and they both sobered quickly. Bilbo took the teapot off the tray and poured tea while Bofur took the food, still on the tray, to the king, and placed it across his knees.

“What quarters did you take,” Thorin asked, digging into the food without hesitation. 

“Down by the kitchens,” Bofur answered promptly, with what Bilbo was already deciding must be his usual succinctness.

“Supplies holding up?”

“About four days,” Bofur predicted. Thorin nodded.

“Found the terraces?”

“Completely neglected, but the soil’s good,” Bofur said, then he glanced over at Bilbo, who had brought the king’s tea and now stood on the stool by the bed, gazing raptly at the pile of bacon on the king’s plate.

Without a thought, Bofur took a piece and handed it to the Hobbit. “Here, try it.”

Thorin stilled and stared affrontedly at the Dwarf, who was oblivious, watching the Hobbit bite into the meltingly succulent bacon.

“Nice, eh?” asked Bofur with a big grin.

“My stars, that’s amazing,” Bilbo breathed, taking another bite. 

“Bombur. He’s magic.” Bofur said with a fluttering gesture of his hand.

“Who’s Bombur,” asked Bilbo, popping the last morsel in his mouth.

“The fat one,” said Bofur bluntly. Bilbo giggled and Thorin gave him a long look.

“Thank you,” the king then said to Bofur in the most pointed manner possible. 

Bofur cheerfully took his leave, and Bilbo followed him politely to the door. The Dwarf turned, giving Bilbo a wide-eyed little salute as he left. Bilbo gazed after him, still smiling. Well, he liked THAT one. None of them had been really awful, but Fili and Kili, and that old one, Balin, seemed to regard him as sentient furniture. This one was different.

When the smile finally faded from his face, he turned to see Thorin staring at him.

“Are you hungry, or aren’t you?” The king asked coldly.

Bilbo quickly returned the bed and the king gestured for him to clamber back on. He settled cross-legged at Thorin’s side and gratefully accepted each morsel the king handed him. Together, they ate in silence, and drank their tea.

When they had finished, Bilbo’s job was to take the tray to the door and summon a Dwarf who had apparently been lingering nearby, waiting. It wasn’t any of the ones he knew. It was a very young one with orange hair and prominent ears, who startled when Bilbo opened the door with the tray, and stared at him with wide eyes before taking the tray in silence. The young Dwarf scuttled a few steps, stopped and turned back and stared at Bilbo again, and then continued on his way without a word.

Hm. How many were there, Bilbo wondered, and closed the door. When he turned back, Thorin was settling into the chair by the fire.

“Do you know how to braid?” he asked Bilbo with heavy sarcasm in his voice, as if any idiot child could braid, but one never knew with Hobbits.

“I do,” he declared with some asperity.

“Then after you have picked up my jacket, shook it out, and hung it up, which you should have done last night, you may come and braid my hair. Bring that bowl of beads,” Thorin informed him brusquely.

Well. Someone was not a morning person, Bilbo decided, and picked up the velvet jacket a bit sullenly, and shook it out, and hung it up.

Then he approached the king with somewhat less nervousness than the previous night. Thorin took a section of his hair, separated it with practiced fingers, and then handed it to Bilbo. “Let us see how useful you are,” he said, and watched Bilbo closely as he furrowed his brow in concentration and began braiding.

Once again, silence fell, but although he could feel Thorin’s blue, assessing gaze on him every minute, Bilbo was not as uncomfortable as he had been the previous night. He’d shared a bath with the Dwarf, two meals, and a bed. Thorin seemed less fearsome this morning. Bilbo picked through the beads, and Thorin let him choose the ones he liked and fasten off the braid with them.

The Dwarf reached up and felt the braid. “Well enough,” he said quietly, and Bilbo went to his other side to repeat the process. The silence was almost companionable.

When he was finished with Thorin’s hair, Bilbo’s next job was to sort through the wardrobe that contained the still-rich clothing that had been Thrain’s, and pull out clothing options while Thorin pondered them and waved them away. By the third rejected shirt, he was getting a little exasperated.

“Is there something in particular you want?” He asked bluntly, and Thorin scowled at him.

“Yes, I want something that I can sort gold in, cut stone in, and yet meet emissaries in and still look as though I hadn’t just emerged from the mines!” He said.

Bilbo looked into the wardrobe. “I recommend gray,” he said, pulling a gray shirt and a black vest with silver embroidery on it. With a placated smirk, Thorin allowed Bilbo to help him into his clothes and armor. Then he held out his hands with his eyebrows raised, and after a moment, Bilbo understood that he should place the king’s heavy rings on his fingers.

Finally, the Hobbit knelt at the king’s feet and helped him on with his boots, not that he needed help.

“Who helped you dress when you were on your journey,” he finally asked.

“No one. I wasn’t king then. It’s a matter of tradition,” Thorin told him, and rose to his feet to go to the mirror.

“Is having a Hobbit do it tradition?” Bilbo asked curiously.

Thorin shot him a look. “Having a slave or servant do it is tradition.”

Bilbo looked down at the stone floor for a moment. Then he looked up again.

“How do I go from a slave to a servant?” He asked.

Thorin turned away from the mirror. “You don’t. You aren’t a Dwarf. Scrub your clothes, clean the bathing chambers, make the bed, sort those offerings there,” he pointed to the pile of clothing on the dresser, “and make yourself useful. I’ll be back for lunch. Do not leave these rooms!”

With that, the Dwarf king left, closing the door firmly behind him. Outside the door, Bilbo faintly heard him speaking to someone in a muffled voice. He couldn’t be sure, but it sounded very much like “Don’t let the Hobbit out.”

Which was very like “Don’t let the dog out,” and Bilbo felt a stab of hurt in his chest.

But then he looked around at the room he’d spent so many years chained in. It was a different place now. Clean, bright, inhabited. And he was clean and fed. And no collar. And no fists or claws clopping him mercilessly about the head when he failed to move quickly enough.

 _For now,_ he told himself. _For now. Let’s wait and see._


	7. Lunch time

Bilbo was a model slave for about four hours. He tidied the rooms, made the bed, drained the tub, scrubbed the tub, dumped all their laundry in the tub, located a washboard in the bathing chamber, scrubbed all their laundry, rinsed it, and left it to soak some more. But as he worked, his dearest desire became… a foray out onto the terraces that Bofur had mentioned. To be outside, just for a half hour. Outside! The sun! Smelling fresh breezes! He wasn’t even sure what season it was. 

He’d longed for such a thing before, but in the days of Orcs and dragons, mere survival was paramount. Now that he was no longer on the ragged edge of despair, bolder dreams and desires were reasserting themselves. He was a Hobbit. Hobbits were meant for gardens and streams and rolling hills. Not dark, fire lit mountains. He knew he was abnormally pale and thin, and some of it was simply malnourishment, but… he felt certain that lack of sunlight was affecting him. 

Bilbo began plotting, just on a small scale. To mount an escape attempt was beyond him right now. He’d been beaten and terrorized quite thoroughly over the years, and the Dwarves were kinder than the Orcs, but they clearly saw him as property. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to defy them too robustly so early in the game. They might have a nasty side just waiting to be awakened.

But a little outing, that seemed reasonable. 

Bilbo peeked out the door to just take a look at the situation. Immediately, a spear-carrying, battered looking Dwarf snapped to attention and glared at him. He had a shock of black hair, a massive nose, a long, gray and black braided beard, and he took a threatening step in the Hobbit’s direction. Bilbo straightened up in alarm, staring at the Dwarf’s head. There was… something sticking out of the Dwarf’s head. Was it some sort of … head decoration? If it was, it was… crooked. And not very attractive.

The Dwarf came closer, scowling, making shooing motions as if Bilbo was a chicken that needed to be chased back into the yard. Bilbo backed away from the door, still staring at the scarred, corrugated head. It looked like some sort of wedge stuck in his head… and one of his eyes was bigger than the other.

Thoroughly spooked, Bilbo skittered back from the door, and the Dwarf grabbed the latch and pulled it shut with a bang. Bilbo placed a hand on his thumping heart. He really needed to know more about his captors, because that one had been frightening just to gaze upon. Thorin and Fili and Kili were quite handsome. Balin was grandfatherly. Bofur was rather roguish, and the little red-haired one was shy. 

But that one… that one scared the Hobbit. If ugly was a crime, he’d be under the jail, Bilbo’s father used to say. Well, this one had escaped from the Death Row of Ugly, Bilbo was certain.

It took a while for his heart rate to return to normal. 

Finally, at loss for anything further to do, Bilbo decided to take a nap. A fright like that puts a strain on a Hobbit’s heart. He clambered up onto the bed and settled in, placing his head on Thorin’s pillow. It smelled like him, like the scented oil used on his hair, but also the male, spicy scent of his neck, and a bit of the plain soap. The smell actually soothed Bilbo, and he drifted off to sleep.

He awoke when Thorin came in to lunch, throwing his furs off his shoulders and tossing them on the nearest flat surface. He spared Bilbo a glance as he startled up and slid off the bed guiltily. The king then gave a cursory look about the rooms. He strode into the bathing chambers, noted the soaking clothes, and gave a nod of approval. 

Without addressing Bilbo, he went back to the door, opened it, and notified whoever was out there (perhaps the terrifying old Dwarf with the axe in his head) that he was ready to receive his lunch. 

Finally, he closed the door, and went to a writing desk in the corner that Bilbo had not taken much note of. With a silver key that he fished from a pocket, Thorin unlocked the desk, drew out several scrolls, and brought them to the table. Taking no more notice of Bilbo than if he’d been a cat dozing on the bed, the Dwarf unrolled the first scroll and began perusing it, chewing absently on his thumb.

Bilbo waited to see if there would be a scolding for napping during the day, but none seemed to be forthcoming. He looked over at the furs, wondering if he was supposed to hang them up, but they didn’t seem to need quite the same care that velvet would.

Finally, the Hobbit went over and poked at the fireplace. That was always a way to look busy when one wasn’t certain what to do. He poked at it several times, and then added another log from the pile against the wall. Yes, that was nice. Blazing cheerfully.

There was a tap at the door. Bilbo looked to Thorin to see if he was going to answer it, and Thorin raised his eyes to Bilbo without lifting his head. Bilbo was beginning to recognize that look. He went quickly to the door and opened it, hiding behind it as he pulled it back, because he was afraid it was Axehead and he didn’t feel up to another encounter.

To his relief, it was Funny Hat Dwarf. Bofur. He brought in a tray of food, and Bilbo found himself smiling at the very swagger with which the Dwarf walked. Even the back of his head looked cheerful.

Bofur placed the tray on the table, gave Thorin a respectful nod, and then turned to see Bilbo peeking out from behind the door. He gave the Hobbit a puzzled stare.

“Are you naked?”

Bilbo straightened indignantly, coming from behind the door. “Certainly not,” he said.

Bofur grinned at him. “Maybe next time.”

Bilbo laughed unwillingly, shaking his head. This one, he just—oh my.

Thorin spread his hands on the scroll as if it had suddenly tried to get away. He turned his head toward the other two but didn’t speak.

“Oh, told Bombur about you,” Bofur said, pulling a small parcel from his pocket. He held it out to Bilbo.

A frisson of pleasure went through the Hobbit, even not knowing at the packet contained. To have someone give him something, anything, was as rare as sunshine in his life. As in, non-existent. He opened the packet carefully and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

“Are these… cookies??” He gasped, even as his highly sensitive nose registered the scents of oatmeal and raisins and a touch of spice. And they were warm. He nearly fainted. He couldn’t help himself; he grabbed the top one and took a huge bite out of it. It was paradise.

“MMmm!” Bilbo whimpered, swallowing almost without chewing. He managed to get control of himself enough to wipe the crumbs from his mouth and give Bofur a glowing look. “Thank you… thank you… I can’t tell you what this means to me, this is…. This is like…. Like home,” he stammered, and had to blink several times so that his eyes didn’t become too shiny.

Bofur grinned with uncomplicated pleasure. “Not bad, eh? I’ve had eight.” He patted his stomach.

Bilbo gave a shaky laugh, “I don’t blame you.”

Behind Bofur, Thorin glowered silently.

Bilbo gave him a guilty look, “Do you want one?” He asked timidly.

Thorin gave a dismissive snort and scowled down at the scroll.

“Oh, he never.” Bofur said. “Go ahead.”

Bilbo finished the first cookie and wrapped the other four up in their brown paper again. “I’ll save them for later,” he said, gazing down at the warm parcel in his hands as if it were precious gems. He gazed back up at Bofur. “I’ve missed cookies almost as much as flowers.”

Bofur tipped his head at him, the hat flaps on either side like wings. “You eat flowers?”

Bilbo laughed weakly, still overcome with emotion. “No, no. I’m just… thinking of things I’ve missed. Good food, pretty flowers, sunshine.”

“Sunshine,” Bofur repeated, like missing sunshine was akin to missing cockroaches.

Bilbo sniffled a little, still smiling at his cookies. “You don’t like sunshine?”

Bofur made a face. “Makes me sneeze.”

Bilbo laughed again. Everything this Dwarf said made him giggle, somehow.

“Flowers?”

“Make me sneeze.”

Bilbo shook his head, grinning as if his face would split.

“What doesn’t make you sneeze?” He asked.

Bofur considered. “Dust!”

Bilbo glanced around. “You’re in the right place.”

Bofur added, “I love rust.”

Bilbo caught on, and said wickedly, “you must.”

Bofur said, “don’t I just!”

Bilbo suggested, “a good gust…?”

Bofur added, “Or a sweet crust.”

Thorin rolled up his scroll with a snap and stood so abruptly his chair scraped as it slid back.

“Thank you,” he said pointedly to Bofur, and gestured to the door. The Dwarf gave a cheerful salute and went out the door, saying “Kitchen or bust.”

“You’ll adjust!” Bilbo called after him, and saw his answering grin before Thorin slammed the door with unusual force. 

Bilbo gazed in the direction of the cheerful Dwarf for a moment, smiling to himself. For just a moment, he was positively happy. Then he looked up at Thorin. The Dwarf king was leveling a smoking look at the packet in his hands. Bilbo nervously retreated and placed it in an unobtrusive corner behind a lantern.

Then he came back to the table and began setting out Thorin’s lunch. Sensing that his master needed some extra attention, Bilbo puttered about him, offering to cut this, and spread that, and should he pour a bit of wine. For long moments, Thorin sat smoldering at the table, looking very much like a shiny black rooster with all its feathers ruffled. Eventually, however, Bilbo’s ministrations soothed his edgy nerves, and he allowed the Hobbit to pour the gravy over his victuals, and cut him slices of bread from the loaf.

When he’d finally done everything to get Thorin comfortably settled and eating, Bilbo glanced at the tray and realized that the kitchen had sent up two settings. He carefully lifted the second plate and silver from the tray and asked, “May I?”

Thorin gestured with his fork, “I have no intention of starving you,” he said.

Bilbo served himself quickly and sat down at the table. He supposed that it was probably a sizable concession on Thorin’s part to let his slave lunch with him, even informally, in their rooms. He knew there was a formal banquet hall (he’d seen the long, dust covered table and its last, abandoned, cobweb strewn setting.) Perhaps when the Dwarves had settled in there would be banquet dinners with the important Dwarf families in attendance. But for now, the king was lunching with his little Hobbit slave by the fire in his quarters.

The silence in which they ate did not seem threatening, and eventually, Bilbo mustered the courage to ask, “How many are there in your company?”

Thorin glanced up from his stew. “Thirteen, counting myself,” he said, dipping his bread.

Bilbo did a mental survey. “You, Fili and Kili, and Balin, and Bofur and Bombur in the kitchen, and the little shy one with the ears—“

“They all have ears,” Thorin informed him with a trace of rebuke.

“And Axehead,” Bilbo murmured without thinking.

Thorin raised his eyebrows at him. “His name is Bifur.”

Bilbo paused. “There’s a Bifur and a Bofur?”

“They’re brothers,” Thorin said, taking a bite of gravy-soaked bread.

Bilbo’s eyes nearly bugged out. “That’s Bofur’s brother out there??” He sat back in his chair in amazement.

Thorin’s mood seemed to darken a little once more. “That bothers you?” He almost sneered.

“Well, no,” stammered the Hobbit, “but… they look nothing alike.”

Thorin shrugged. “They might.” He said wryly. “I’ve never seen Bofur without the hat. Who knows what’s under it.”

Bilbo gave him a huge smile. “Right,” he said. Thorin looked up at him and, after a moment, gave a smirk in return. They sat smiling at each other for a warm second, and suddenly Thorin seemed so approachable, Bilbo decided to risk a request.

“I—I was wondering if this afternoon I could go out on these terraces you mentioned.”

The king’s smile vanished. Thorin’s eyes slid off to the side as if someone had just tried to sneak up behind him.

“No.” He said abruptly, and went back to eating.

Bilbo’s heart fell. “But—“ 

Thorin stopped eating and stared at him. “What part of the word NO is difficult for the Hobbit mind to process?” He asked icily.

Bilbo felt himself shrink. His eyes dropped to his food and for a moment, his appetite went numb. He stared at his plate miserably. Thorin regarded him, some of his temper receding. He was just about to offer the Hobbit some placating remark about a future date when such an outing might be arranged, but he stopped himself. If you give a slave an inch, they will immediately campaign for a mile. Look at him right now. He let his slave share his bed and meals; now the little monster wanted to roam Erebor at will. Take them off the leash and they run wild.

Thorin turned his attention back to his meal, and after a moment, Bilbo did the same. Depressed or not, a Hobbit can always eat.

So he ate, and as he did, Bilbo’s mind was churning. He waited until the meal was finished and the little shy Dwarf had taken the tray. Then he turned to Thorin.

“Where shall I hang the clothes to dry?” He asked.

“By the fire,” Thorin said, gathering up the scrolls he’d perused before lunch.

Bilbo took a deep breath and asked, “Is there someone who could hang them outside? They’ll smell better,” he added.

Thorin gave him a suspicious glance.

“Maybe Bofur would be willing?” the Hobbit dared.

The straight, thick brows seemed to lower. “Bofur has enough duties without helping you.”

“Who is the one who just took the tray?” Bilbo asked.

“Ori,” Thorin snapped shortly.

“Could he…?”

The king rolled his eyes, as if this quibbling with the slave over the laundry was exhausting his reserves. “Fine!” He turned and locked the scrolls away. Bilbo helped him re-drape his furs and pull his long hair from under them, and spread it fetchingly on his shoulders. As he turned to go, Thorin gave him one last look. Then he opened the door. The terrifying Axehead (Bifur, he corrected himself) was just outside the door.

Bilbo trotted to it daringly and said, “Um… so will you send Ori? To help with the laundry, I mean?”

Thorin heaved an exasperated sigh and turned to Bifur. “Send Ori to help my slave with the laundry,” he repeated, as if this were the most ridiculous request in creation. Then he swept off with his usual majesty, and Bilbo sank quietly back into the royal chambers and closed the door.


	8. To See the Sun

Bilbo worked quickly, draining the tub, wringing out the clothes, piling them into two separate baskets. He had to dump the towels out to do it, but he stacked them neatly on a table and used the basket they’d sat in. He put them both by the fire. 

Next, he dug about in the long-abandoned dressers and cabinets until he found a length of twine. He rolled it up and went to put it in his pocket, when he looked down at himself and realized he was still wearing nothing but a long white nightshirt and small clothes underneath. Quickly, he went riffling through Thorin’s clothes. He found a pair of pants and pulled them on, rolling the cuffs up and up (and up) until he could walk well enough in them. He had to roll the waistband down as well to help them stay up. But at last he felt more or less dressed.

Then he tidied nervously as he waited for Ori.

Finally, the most timid of knocks was heard. If he’d been humming to himself, he might have missed it. Bilbo opened the door to find the orange haired young Dwarf with the ears (they might all have ears, but they didn’t all have ears like that!) Bilbo opened the door wide, and Ori slid in as if he were afraid to brush up against the strange Hobbit. His round little eyes blinked uneasily. Being alone with a stranger was low on Ori’s list of favorite things.

“There you are. Good.” Bilbo said briskly. “I’m Bilbo,” he offered his hand and Ori looked at it for a minute as if it might be hot. Then he gingerly shook hands.

“Ah. Ori.” He managed.

Bilbo regarded him for a moment and then went to the little package behind the lantern, bringing it back and unfolding it as he came.

“Cookie?” He asked temptingly. Ori’s mouth made a little “ooooo” shape.

“Bofur gave them to me,” Bilbo said (a little name-dropping might not hurt.)

Suddenly Ori’s eyes lit up and he hesitatingly accepted a cookie. Bilbo took one as well, and they munched them, staring at each other.

“Amazing, eh,” Bilbo said. Ori nodded eagerly. “Bombur can make anything, I hear,” Bilbo added.

Shyly, Ori spoke, “He’s really good.”

They smiled at each other. Then Bilbo said, “So Thorin said you wouldn’t mind helping me hang up the laundry out on the terraces.”

Ori nodded again. “Happy to,” he said brightly, as if glad to have something to do.

Bilbo handed him a basket, and took the other, and said innocently, “Lead the way, then, Master Ori.”

When they exited the royal chambers, Bifur’s consternation was evident. He jumped up, ready to shoo Bilbo back in, but seeing the two carrying laundry, he hesitated. Clearly the slave was doing the king’s work. But wasn’t he supposed to not leave the rooms? Bifur hesitated. 

Bilbo seized the opportunity.

“I think you have to come with me and supervise,” He said apologetically. “I’m not supposed to leave the chambers… alone.”

Bifur wavered, thinking it over. Had the king said Don’t Let the Hobbit Out, or had he said Don’t Let the Hobbit Out Alone? Bifur wasn’t sure now. The King HAD sent for Ori. He HAD said the phrase “help with the laundry.”

“I can’t carry it all by myself,” Bilbo said reasonably, and Bifur finally gave an uncertain nod. Ori led the way, and Bilbo followed, his heart thumping. Bifur, with his spear, fell in behind, and in stately parade they proceeded through the meandering passages that would bring them to the terraces. Bilbo kept an alert eye on the route, counting his footsteps, noting where they turned and what sights and tunnels they passed.

When they finally neared the opening, and Bilbo perceived the brightening light, his heart swelled with anticipation. The glare hurt his eyes, but the buzzing in his ears overwhelmed all other considerations. Outside! Outside! They approached, they passed through, and then they were… outside!

Bilbo drew the air into his lungs as deeply as he could, blinking his watering eyes happily. From the scent, it was late spring. Spring! The sky was a soft, vibrant blue! A few puffy white clouds were pearly white in contrast. The very earth smelled wet and fresh. The breeze was slight but it went over his skin like fingers. Just to feel his hair stir slightly was an experience beyond all things (except maybe those oatmeal cookies.) The Hobbit was so wild with barely suppressed glee, it took him a moment to notice that Ori and Bifur had meandered to a halt and were now looking about themselves.

“Um, Bilbo?” Ori asked shyly, “Where do we hang them?”

“Oh, yes, right,” Bilbo placed his basket on one of the many large rocks about them on the mountainside and dug the twine out of his pocket. “Maybe you two can help me find places to tie this off?”

For the next hour, the three were quite gainfully employed rigging up a clothesline (no easy task when there are no trees.) Bifur put his spear down and turned his puzzled face to the task, and Ori made suggestions and trotted about contentedly. Bilbo soon came to the conclusion that Bifur was not frightening at all, only rather odd. Helpful and well-intentioned enough. Besides, he was the funny one’s brother. How dreadful could he be? 

Ori, for his part, lost his timidity as they worked together, and eventually the wet clothes were hanging in a tidy line with the afternoon breeze making them dance just a bit.

The three of them stood and regarded their work proudly, and then Bilbo turned to look over the small plateaus of soil neatly laid out in descending steps. It was clear they had indeed been neglected… most of what grew there now looked like weeds, but the original plan had been solid. And Bilbo could see patches that had been attended to within the last few days. Bombur (whom he’d not seen yet but heard so much of) had clearly come foraging, and begun work on them.

Bilbo knelt down and dug his fingers into the soil, bringing a handful up to his nose to smell it.

Ori watched him with evident confusion. “You like the smell of dirt?” He asked wonderingly. Bilbo closed his eyes and inhaled, “Hobbits love gardening,” he answered. “It’s what we do… this needs some composting and wood ash, by the way.”

He almost wanted to put the handful of dirt in his pants pocket, to pull out and play with later, but these were Thorin’s pants and he could just imagine all the ways that could go wrong. Reluctantly, he let the dirt fall back out of his fingers and brushed his hands off. Then he turned his face to the sun, tipped it back, and just stood there for a bit, feeling the sun’s rays on his cheeks.

Bifur and Ori sat down on nearby rocks and enjoyed the afternoon breeze. Bifur leaned his spear against the mountainside, pulled something out of his pocket and began whittling it. Ori swung his feet back and forth, and Bilbo came and sat next to him. They contemplated the view together.

From where they sat, the ruins of Lakewood were visible. Smoke was still rising from the devastated city.

Ori pointed, “over there is where the refugees camped on their way to Dale. You can’t see Dale from here; it’s more that way. Around the other side.” 

Bilbo gazed out where the young dwarf was pointing. “Which way is Mirkwood? Where the Elves live?” Ori pointed again, “See where the land gets kind of dark?”

Bilbo nodded. “I bet it’s further than it looks.”

“Oh yes. And it has spiders,” Ori said with disgust.

“You don’t like spiders?” Bilbo said absently.

“Not ones the size of horses,” Ori said.

“Oh, I see. Yes, that would be… problematic,” Bilbo agreed pleasantly.

Suddenly Bifur got to his feet, put his whittling away, took up his spear and seemed to come to attention. Bilbo had only a split second to register the possible significance of this when he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Thorin and a huge bald Dwarf with a tattooed head and an aggressive stare coming toward them. Behind them was an Elven emissary followed by two servants of his own. The entire party had apparently come out to see what the Dwarves might need to buy from the Elves to get the gardens up and functioning.

Bilbo froze with dread. 

Ori, at first, continued happily swinging his feet on the rock, watching Thorin approach. But after a moment, the outraged stare the king wore seeped into his consciousness, and the young Dwarf suddenly got the sinking feeling children always get when they realize that they have apparently done something very wrong, but have yet no idea what it was.

The red-headed Dwarf’s eyes grew round as buttons and his feet stopped swinging as Thorin came up and loomed over the both of them. Bilbo was too afraid to even look at him after that first shocked stare. He’d been certain that he could come out, hang up the clothes, and get back to the rooms without his Master ever knowing about it.

Faintness washed past his ears and his hands started prickling. He swallowed and stared fixedly at the clothes hanging on the line. There was an awkward silence.

Finally, Thorin turned to glare at Bifur, who gave him a satisfied nod as if to say, “See? I supervised!” The king looked as if he were grinding his teeth.

It was Ori’s pleading eyes that spared everyone an ugly scene. Thorin stared down at him, took several deep breaths, and then looked over at the clothing with an effort.

“Very well done,” he said gruffly, and Ori swallowed, aware that something was wrong but not knowing what it was. “Why don’t you two see that the Hobbit gets safely back to my quarters now. I don’t want anything happening to him while I’m not there.” He said meaningfully, and though the two Dwarves accepted the command at face value, Bilbo had a very distinct sense that what Thorin meant was: something is most definitely going to happen to him once I AM there.

Without a word, he jumped down from the rock, grabbed an empty basket, and meekly followed Ori back through the twisting passages. Bifur followed them, humming a bit to himself, utterly unconscious of his king’s true reaction to the laundry outing. Bilbo scurried with his eyes down, feeling as if an invisible yoke was setting on his shoulders, and growing heavier with every step.


	9. Punishment

Once Bilbo was back in the royal chamber, Ori bade him a conflicted good-bye (he was clearly still puzzling out Thorin’s stifled yet measured reaction.) Bilbo looked around for something to do, but the rooms were clean and neat, and it was hours yet till supper. Fright seized him, and he felt cold all over. Finally he crawled back on the bed and burrowed under the covers, pulling them even over his head. Hiding, that’s what. Of course, Thorin would be able to see the small lump huddled in the large bed, but it was a psychological measure meant to help calm his racing heart and get the blood flowing through him again.

Once he calmed, Bilbo was overcome with a dejected lassitude that actually allowed him to drift off to sleep again. And once again, he was woken some hours later by the grand entrance of his king. This time, as Bilbo’s eyes popped open under the covers, he couldn’t bring himself to slide out of the bed and face Thorin. He huddled still, despising himself for being a coward. But years of abuse and slavery had taken their toll, and the Hobbit wanted nothing more than to delay the hour of reckoning by every second he could.

When Thorin entered the chamber, his mood was admittedly dark. Bilbo’s defiance had ensured the one thing the Dwarf had been trying to avoid: the Elven emissary had seen the Hobbit slave and inquired about him. Thorin had made a dismissive answer, but the knowledge was out now: there was a Hobbit. He was with the Dwarves, working for them.

Elves did not approve of slavery. Well, they claimed not to. Thorin knew full well that Elves did indeed take prisoners and sometimes used them for labor, but as the prisoners were considered criminals, they did not call it slavery, and therefore felt confident asserting that they did not approve of slavery. Dwarves considered this a clever but dishonest parsing of the definition of “free forced labor,” and it was one of those issues upon which the two races irritated one another. 

Thorin had brooded for the rest of the afternoon about the proper punishment for his slave, and when he entered the room for his evening meal, and bath, and rest, he had settled upon it. He came in to find the fire burning low and the room fairly dark. The Hobbit was nowhere to be seen, yet Bifur had nodded complacently when Thorin had asked, before entering, whether his slave had made it safely back.

Hiding, then. Thorin was darkly amused. _Yes, hide. I advise it,_ he thought.

He shucked off his fur, and undid the massive belt that cinched the long, sweeping blue velvet coat around his frame. He dropped the belt on the stone floor with an ominous clatter, and under the covers, Bilbo cringed and curled up tighter.

Thorin slid the velvet coat off his arms and tossed it over the back of a chair, a slight smile playing over his lips as his eyes swept over the room. _Let’s play Find the Hobbit,_ he thought, taking a long match from the hearth and lighting the lanterns one by one until the room was bright. He poked up the fire, calmly, and then replaced the poker and looked around. 

Now he saw the small, guilty lump hiding under the covers, up near the pillows. Despite his irritation, his smile grew. The punishment he had in mind was amusing to him, and he approached the bed with heavy footsteps, deliberately prolonging his slave’s dread for a few seconds. 

Thorin waited to see whether Bilbo would emerge on his own. Under the covers, Bilbo’s hands were over his face and he was reliving several harsh memories of his time at the hands of the Orcs. They tended to use their fists, and Bilbo had learned quickly not to anger them. 

Finally, the covers were pulled off, and Thorin regarded his huddled subject, waiting till the Hobbit gathered up enough courage to look up at him.

To Bilbo’s surprise, the Dwarf king was not scowling. He simply stared down at his slave with a disquieting little smile on his lips. They regarded each other in silence for a moment. Thorin rather expected a surge of explanations, justifications, and apologies, but Bilbo, though terrified of punishment, nonetheless had already accepted that one must be forthcoming, and had no energy to do anything but wait and see what it was, and brace himself to endure it.

“May I have my pants back, slave?” Thorin asked with deceptive politeness.

Bilbo shinnied out of the baggy pants carefully and handed them over.

“Thank you,” Thorin said with an ironic little bow. He strode into the bathing chamber with the pants, and Bilbo heard the water running in the tub. Then the splash of the pants being dropped into the water.

Thorin returned to the bed, rolling his sleeves up as he came. “Nightshirt,” he said, holding out his large hand. Slowly, Bilbo drew the shirt over his head and handed it to the king. Into the bathing chamber it went, presumably to join the pants in the tub. Bilbo huddled in the bed in his little white shorts.

A moment later, Thorin returned for the shorts. Without a word, he simply raised his eyebrows and held out his hand. Bilbo pulled the blankets over himself pleadingly.

Thorin leaned forward, “Do you want me to help you?” He asked in a silkily threatening growl. Bilbo paled and, under the covers, squirmed out of the shorts and handed them over unhappily. The dwarf took them into the bath, and Bilbo heard splashing as the clothes were given a quick scrub.

Finally, the dwarf emerged from the bathing chamber with the clothes in a basket. He tossed his long hair over his shoulder, carried the basket to the door, and gave it to Bifur. “Have these hung up with the others,” Bilbo heard him direct.

When the door had closed again, Thorin returned to the bed and gazed down at the cringing Hobbit, who had the covers pulled up to his chin miserably. Thorin reached under the covers from the side and groped until his hand found the smooth flesh of Bilbo’s hip. Bilbo drew in his breath and curled up like a pill bug, his knees defensively set in Thorin’s direction. But nothing could really impede the large hand wandering over his vulnerable hip, and side, and up his nude back.

“My, my, Mr. Baggins. How very naked you are,” Thorin commented, watching the Hobbit’s face flush as the hand moved over his surprisingly soft skin.

Bilbo said nothing. Thorin smiled, showing his white teeth.

“You don’t even like the word ‘naked,’ do you?” He mused, moving his hand down Bilbo’s back. The Hobbit swallowed and kept his silence. 

The hand moved down and down as Bilbo’s eyes widened.

“Do you like the word… buttock?” Thorin asked inquiringly, his hand cupping one round cheek and squeezing it firmly. Bilbo buried his face in the pillow while Thorin gave him a humiliating fondle.

Finally, with a chuckle, the Dwarf withdrew his hand and moved away from the bed, sliding his embroidered vest off and tossing it aside. “Tomorrow, I’m having the bell fixed,” he informed Bilbo, looking at the long, beautifully embroidered bell pull that had thus far hung unused near the hearth. Bilbo hadn’t known what it was; he thought it merely decoration. Thorin regarded it for a moment.

“My mother made it. Ladies of the palace always did beautiful needlework,” he remarked conversationally. Then he went to the door to inform whatever Dwarf now guarded it that dinner should be sent up.

Bilbo waited in the bed, not sure what was coming next. Thorin strolled to the chair by the fire, turned it so he could bask in the firelight and regard the bed both, and sat down comfortably, stretching his legs out before him. He waited for a moment, regarding Bilbo expectantly, and then gestured to the outer garments he’d strewn about the room. “You have duties,” he reminded his slave.

Understanding now the nature of his punishment, Bilbo slid wretchedly toward the edge of the bed, staying under the covers until the last possible minute. Finally he mustered the courage to speak.

“May I have a towel?” He asked humbly.

Thorin made a gallant gesture toward the stack of towels on the dresser just a little beyond Bilbo’s reach.

“By all means,” he said mockingly, and watched his unhappy slave slip naked from the bed, dart over to the pile of towels, and wrap one about himself hastily. His own smile grew. The Hobbit’s modesty amused him, and he was rather congratulating himself on realizing that he could use it against him. Bilbo was very unlikely to go wandering Erebor without clothes, he knew, and he reminded himself to make certain his own clothes were locked up during the day.

He wasn’t certain exactly how long he intended to keep the Hobbit in this state of humiliated vulnerability, but there wasn’t any mercy in his Dwarven soul at the moment. Thorin was not a good sport about defiance. He was a king, and he expected to be obeyed. He wasn’t a brute… necessarily… but the potential was there, he acknowledged to himself, watching with hooded eyes as Bilbo awkwardly picked up his garments with one hand while clutching his towel with the other.

Thorin did allow Bilbo to hide in the bathing chambers when Bofur brought the supper tray in. The cheerful Dwarf looked about for his Hobbity new friend, but seeing the closed door, he shrugged, gave his king the usual nod, and swaggered back out again. Bilbo was sorry not to see him, but stripped of what little dignity he had, solitude was preferable. 

When Bofur was gone, Bilbo crept from the bathing chambers, expecting to join Thorin at the table to eat. But the king fixed him with a stern look.

“Disobedient slaves lose certain privileges,” Thorin informed him, and then pointed at the floor by the hearth. “Sit there.”

Bilbo stared at the food in dismay for a moment, because he was rather hungry, but slunk to the fireplace and sank down there obediently. At least it was warm, and he was on the rug rather than the cold stone floor. He wrapped the towel around himself more tightly and stared sadly into the fire as Thorin calmly ate his fill behind him.

It was not long, however, before the king finished eating and pushed back his chair a bit. He was ready now to entertain himself with a little more humiliation of his hapless captive. He’d thought about it all day, and amused himself with ways to outrage the poor creature’s sensibilities.

“You may approach me now,” Thorin informed the Hobbit, who came to his feet hopefully. The king held his hand out. “Come,” he ordered.

Bilbo hesitated for a moment, staring at the rather harsh but oddly attractive features of the Dwarf who regarded him calmly. His hair lay about his shoulders, and his large, deep set eyes were very dark in the firelight. He waited patiently, and finally Bilbo came to him nervously.

“Give me the towel,” Thorin instructed.

Bilbo’s heart felt like it was stuttering in its pace, but he reluctantly relinquished the towel. Thorin spread it on his lap and then without warning, scooped Bilbo into his lap much as he had scooped him into the tub the night before.

Once he had him there, there was little the Hobbit could do but place his hands modestly over his private parts and curl up in the king’s lap, mortified and resentful, and wait to see what his master had in mind. Thorin wrapped one arm around the Hobbit’s back to support him, and ran his other hand appreciatively over the naked hip.

“You do have the smoothest skin,” he said, and there was a possessive, satisfied sound to that remark. Then the Dwarf reached over to his plate and picked up a bit of meat, bringing it to Bilbo’s lips. “Open,” he instructed, and to Bilbo’s utter humiliation, he realized that Thorin intended to feed him like a pet while he curled naked and exposed in the Dwarf king’s lap. He wanted to bury his face in the king’s shoulder and just weep. But he was hungry, and his master was watching the expressions play across his face with satisfied amusement.

Well. Thorin was a genius at discovering ways to crush defiance, Bilbo had to admit. He sat in Thorin’s lap, feeling very sorry for himself, and ate the tidbits his master slowly fed him, and endured the occasional caresses of his hips and thighs. Bilbo felt very much like a pet as the Dwarf handled him at will, making certain the Hobbit understood that the king could do with him as he liked.

This went on for quite a while. There was succulent, tender meat, which the king placed in Bilbo’s mouth at intervals, watching as he chewed and swallowed. There were slices of squash, well buttered and salted, and slippery on the tongue. There was bread, which the king preferred to drizzle with honey first, and Bilbo had no objection. 

Thorin seemed content to make the feeding of his slave last well into the evening, and as the strange ritual went on, Bilbo found himself gradually relaxing into Thorin’s arms. They were very warm, for one thing. And strong. And being fed slowly seemed to turn from being a humiliating experience to being an oddly pleasant one. Thorin choose a morsel, brought it to Bilbo’s lips, and then watched intently as the Hobbit opened his mouth and accepted it from his fingers. Their faces were very close to one another. Bilbo had not been the object of such direct, concentrated, nurturing attention since childhood.

Eventually Bilbo gained the courage to look directly into Thorin’s eyes as he gently pushed a bit of fruit into his slave’s mouth. Those eyes were remarkable, he had to admit. Deep set, heavy lidded, the whites visible slightly beneath the blue starbursts of his irises. And the lower eyelids were prominent when he smiled, even slightly. And his eyelashes were black and sweeping.

The silence in the room gradually took on a heavy, languorous feel. Bilbo began to feel as though his body were filling with some thick, warm liquid that made it difficult to want to move. Thorin smirked down at him, and again, a rather gloating shade of ownership was present on his face. He brought a cup of wine to the Hobbit’s lips and watched closely as Bilbo drank it obediently. 

There was even dessert, a golden pudding of some sort that Thorin decided (in an inspired moment,) to make Bilbo suck off of his fingers. And they both became aware that Thorin was placing his fingers a little deeper into his slave’s mouth every time. Bilbo felt as if he was made of wax and too close to the fire. He wasn’t sure if this was still punishment, or simply a display of power, but it was beginning to feel like something else entirely. Bilbo’s years of loneliness and solitude made this intimacy a potent attack on his sensibilities, and when Thorin placed one warm, possessive hand on the Hobbit’s bare, soft belly, he couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes, and letting his head fall back on Thorin’s arm.

Beneath his hands, Bilbo felt something stirring that had not stirred in a long time. He swallowed, desperately willing it not to, biting his lip and concentrating hard. He was unaware of how his master was gazing down at him, eyes traveling the offered throat, his lips parting slightly.

Thorin, for his part, came to the sudden realization that the Hobbit might be good for more than cleaning and bullying. When he’d first claimed the bedraggled creature, he hadn’t considered him for a bed slave. He’d been so filthy and thin, it was more like adopting a stray dog. But his little game of humiliating his disobedient slave had suddenly shifted the possibilities, as far as the Dwarf was concerned.

Perhaps it was those pointy ears, but Thorin had never bedded a Hobbit. And certainly no Elves. Humans rarely interested him – well, it had happened a few times in his travels, but for the most part, Thorin’s interest in sexual matters had been set aside, and his attentions had been focused on fulfilling what he felt was his destiny, and on his responsibility to his people.

But now this naked Hobbit, whom he’d truly only meant to mortify for his own amusement, suddenly seemed like a very soft, smooth, vulnerable vessel for … more intense pleasures. _Oh, you funny little creature,_ he thought darkly. _You are going to be sorry, I think, that you defied me today._

He had no doubt that being ravished by a Dwarf would abrade the prudish Hobbit’s modesty unbearably. He’d be… well, it might truly break his spirit, Thorin mused calmly. He ran his rough hands over the quivering body lying weakly on his lap and considered. Did he want to do that? His eyes ran over Bilbo, and the possessive glint of ownership turned into a full-fledged gleam. Well, yes, actually. To render the Hobbit utterly compliant and without resistance was a prospect that, to his surprise, appealed to his greedy side. In the firelight, that skin was almost like gold. And Thorin couldn’t see gold without wanting to make it his own.

The one redeeming feature Thorin did have, however, was patience. He could wait for quite a while when he wanted something, and it occurred to him that dissolving Bilbo’s resistance might be more enjoyable if done slowly. So he brought his burgeoning lust under control, left off caressing the naked body and brought his hand up to Bilbo’s dark gold curls.

“Look at me,” he said softly. Bilbo’s eyes fluttered open. Thorin traced a finger over the smooth face gently. “It’s time to draw my bath,” he told his slave, and helped him to his big, Hobbity feet, and draped the towel back over him. Bilbo wavered dizzily for a moment, and then withdrew to the cooler air of the bathing chamber torn between disappointment and relief.

The relief won out as his head cleared. He took several deep breaths of air as the water ran into the tub, trying to clear Thorin’s heady scent from his nostrils. He was going to fall in love with this Dwarf, he feared. Just having someone touch him and hold him after all the years of solitude and abuse made him a flower to be picked by the first hand, and he was very afraid of that hand being a stern-hearted Dwarf who considered him property.

Because if he fell for Thorin, he would be property indeed.


	10. More Punishment

When the bath was drawn, Thorin dismissed his slave, much to Bilbo’s surprise, and disrobed and sank into the hot water behind a firmly closed door. Bilbo retreated to the fireplace, still wrapped in the towel, and picked through the food left on the platter. He was determined to build up his strength, and this evening’s weirdly erotic activities had alerted him to an entirely new danger: that of a captive heart. He was relieved that Thorin did not require him to attend the royal bath.

He would not have been nearly so relieved if he had known what was going on in the bathing chamber. Thorin lay stretched in the tub, head leaning back, slowly stroking his hard length under the surface of the water. Oh, he had plans for that Hobbit tonight. And he wanted to remain in control. So he closed his eyes and mentally walked through the humiliations and mortifications he had in mind, and found to his delight that the very anticipation of these acts made him as hard as a rock. Every dark fantasy that had ever flitted across his mind suddenly rose to make suggestions, and for the first time in his life, Thorin found himself faced with the possibility that he had a subject to enact his fantasies upon. One that could not protest, could not escape… one that, he suspected, might even be drawn in despite himself, and gradually become a willing victim of the Dwarf’s deliberate outrages.

Thorin jerked his flesh roughly, as he liked, until he expended his lusts into the warm bath water. Leaning back, he panted in the steamy air until his body regained its normal state. Then, when the dizziness had passed, he pulled the plug on the water and rose from the tub. Calm now. Unlikely to lose control and simply rape the Hobbit… not that he was opposed to raping his slave, just not tonight. Not yet.

The Dwarf king wiped himself dry, his eyes distant, brooding, and not very kind. Then he tossed the towel aside, donned his white, thin sleepwear, and exited the bathing chamber. Time To Break the Hobbit. He was looking forward to this.

The king moved about the royal chambers, turning down the majority of the lanterns one by one, but leaving a few by the bed. The room was pleasantly dim when he turned to Bilbo. “Come to bed,” he said shortly, and crawled in himself.

Bilbo came obediently to the bed, towel still modestly wrapped about his shoulders, pulled tightly about his hips. Thorin had a smile on his lips at this, but watched quietly as Bilbo stepped upon on the stool, and then had to clamber over his king to reach his own side of the bed.

Once the Hobbit was under the covers, Thorin demanded he relinquish the towel again.

Bilbo obeyed silently, uneasily watching as Thorin set the towel carefully on his other side, as if he might have need of it soon.

“Now, we must talk,” Thorin announced in his deep voice. Bilbo’s eyes traveled reluctantly up to his master’s face. His Hobbity nose gave a nervous twitch.

“You disobeyed me today,” the king announced. He waited for a reply, but Bilbo was barely breathing.

“Do you have anything to say?” Thorin inquired patiently.

Bilbo licked his lips nervously. “I just … I hadn’t seen the sun in so many years…” He could think of no other plea to offer. If the Dwarf wasn’t moved by that admission, then he wasn’t movable.

Of course, Thorin was far less angry than Bilbo could know. The damage was done. The Elves knew he was there, enslaved, and would doubtless refer to it condemningly every chance they got, and perhaps even use it for diplomatic pressure in some unknown way. This could not be undone.

And he wasn’t insensible to the Hobbit’s simple desire to be outdoors for a moment. Indeed, he intended, after this, to give him regular outings, if he could arrange it without fear of his slave’s escape.

No, at the moment, it was simply leverage. A way to create a guilty conscience and a justification for the outrages he planned to inflict for his own titillation. And he intended to see if the Hobbit could be brought to crave such outrages. Thorin suspected it could be done. So he gave the Hobbit a cool look beneath his naturally glowering brows and said, “But you understand that you defied me.”

Bilbo lowered his eyes in defeat. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Bilbo’s mind raced. “Yes… your majesty?”

Thorin thought this over. How did he want his slave to address him? “Your Majesty” was too formal. “Master” was frankly silly, but it had a simplicity, and a mentally reinforcing connotation that might be helpful. But he found, to his mild surprise, that he wanted to hear the Hobbit say his name.

“Say, yes Master Thorin,” he instructed.

Bilbo’s eyes, larger and more clear gray than ever, turned up toward his face again in alarm, as if he instinctively understood, suddenly, that their relationship was about to become very structured, very specific, and that he had no choice in the matter.

His head was on the pillow and the covers were drawn up to his shoulders, so only his face and golden curls were visible. Thorin gazed down on him sternly, and Bilbo breathed, “Yes, Master Thorin.” With those words, he knew he was entering new territory.

Thorin’s eyes grew a bit more hooded.

“You agree that you deserve punishment for such an act.” He stated, his voice more quiet, yet more gravelly for its hush.

Bilbo whispered, “I thought you already… I mean… I thought that you taking my clothes—“

“That was merely precaution, so you do not do it again,” Thorin told him softly, not breaking his stare.

“… you didn’t let me eat with you,” Bilbo said weakly.

Thorin smiled. “Simply displaying my displeasure. Not the same as punishment.”

Bilbo fell silent.

Thorin spoke again, “Punishment is distinct. It is announced beforehand, you acknowledge it, you endure it willingly and obediently, and when it is over, you thank me for it.”

Bilbo felt a little ill. His hands were turning cold again. “It sounds rather terrible.”

“That’s why it is called punishment,” Thorin remarked amusedly. “It is not merely pain, it is humiliation, correction, prevention of re-occurrence. Do you understand?”

Bilbo’s mind caught on the word “pain.”

“Pain?” He asked in dread.

Thorin’s lips curled a bit more. “Some.”

Bilbo’s heart sped up and he grew limp with dread, once again. But there was also a ticking in his stomach, a strange excitement… he had a feeling that what was going to happen would have a component to it that might be… compelling in some way.

“I see.” He whispered.

“And yet,” Thorin mused, drawing the moment out, “what you did was not so terrible. It was defiance, certainly, but not… treason. Treason deserves a flogging with a whip.”

Bilbo’s eyes became huge.

“Nor did you do anything criminal. Criminal acts result in chains, perhaps a branding,” Thorin said, as if deep in thought.

Bilbo’s head was spinning. Branding? Dwarves practiced branding?? Well, they might, they certainly liked tattoos. He was afraid to move now. It crossed his mind that Thorin might be just a touch mad.

“What you did was more… childish rebellion.” The king decided. The Hobbit was inclined to plead guilty to this, if it took whipping and branding off the table.

“In Dwarven culture, we correct rebellious children with our bare hands. No implements,” Thorin told him.

By the sudden warming in his stomach, Bilbo knew instinctively what his punishment would entail.

“So I suppose I must take you in hand,” Thorin said, finally, and looked down at him again. “I think you deserve to lay naked across my lap, face down, arms stretched out before you, while I spank your buttocks until they are red, and you are sorry.”

Bilbo gazed up at him in astonishment at the blunt way he described the punishment. He couldn’t think of any reply.

“Go to the bathing chambers,” Thorin told him calmly, “and retrieve the lotion in the blue bottle.”

Head spinning, Bilbo crept out of the bed, keenly aware of his nakedness, and tiptoed to retrieve the blue bottle. When he’d brought it shyly back to the bed, Thorin motioned for him to climb back in, and then ignored the Hobbit for a moment while he poured the lotion in his hands and worked it in thoroughly, his long hair spilling forward over his shoulders, while Bilbo watched in fascinated dread.

Then Thorin turned, moved more toward the center of the bed, and propped the pillows well behind him. Bilbo’s stomach twisted as he watched the Dwarf king make calm, comfortable, sensible preparations to spank his naked buttocks. Finally the king was settled and ready, the blankets pushed off his lap.

“Wait,” the king said, and took an unused pillow from Bilbo’s side. He put it on his lap so that the Hobbit would be more bent, his buttocks higher, a better target. Then Thorin laid the towel across the pillow.

“That’s where you’ll lay,” he said. Bilbo’s face was so suffused with heat even his ears were red. He knelt at the king’s side, blanket clutched before him, staring at the towel-covered pillow. 

“First you say, I accept that I must be punished, Master Thorin,” the king told him, enjoying the horror on his slave’s face.

The awful moment of silence hung, and then Bilbo licked his lips and stammered, “I—I accept that I must be… punished. Master Thorin.” He was starting to feel oddly lightheaded.

The king nodded. The look of gloating pleasure on his sharp face was unmistakable. “Your punishment is to lay across my lap, with your arms stretched before you, and to endure my hand striking your buttocks for as long as I see fit. Do you agree to this?”

What choice did he have, Bilbo thought dizzily. This was more frightening than simply being punched several times by an angry Orc. This was calm, cool, deliberate, and far more humiliating.

“You are allowed to cry out. You are not allowed to attempt to move away or block my blows in any way. Do you understand?” Thorin asked patiently.

Bilbo blinked several times. “Yes,” he managed.

“Then we shall begin. Lay across my lap and place your arms before you,” Thorin said firmly, and, with his head buzzing as if filled with bees, Bilbo slowly complied. The pillow was a pleasant cushion, but his buttocks felt obscenely raised and exposed. His head felt heavy. His hands reached the edge of the bed and clutched it, and Thorin nodded to himself. The Hobbit was well-positioned. His buttocks were white and smooth, and fairly plump despite how thin the rest of him was. He reminded himself to begin gently.

Thorin laid one warm, well-oiled hand across the Hobbit’s buttocks, and Bilbo couldn’t help flinching. He placed the other firmly on the back of the Hobbit’s neck. Then, after a long, anticipatory moment, the punishment began.

Thorin began slowly and carefully, with strikes that were little more than steady light slaps, barely creating a sting. Bilbo blushed even more deeply. There was no question in his mind, now, what Thorin ultimately intended. This was more about degradation than pain. The slaps continued, and Bilbo could feel how his cheeks jiggled with every blow. And they were steadily growing warmer. Every time Thorin’s bare, hard palm connected with his own tender flesh, a spark of shame tinged with a strange, hot excitement went through him.

The spanking continued, and though the strikes were only marginally firmer, the heat began to build and Bilbo became aware that his buttocks were getting sore. Thorin’s hand continued to slap down, making the flesh jiggle and pinken further. 

All the blood in his body seemed to pool at his mid section, and the Hobbit dug his face into the mattress. Thorin’s other hand remained on the back of his neck, preventing him from lifting his head, not that he would have dared. The blows became gradually harder, and Thorin was aiming lower now, on the spot where the buttocks curved in to meet the thighs. 

There was no doubt that Bilbo was getting hot and bothered. His breathing was coming fast, and he was grateful that his growing erection was hidden in the pillow. Thorin still spanked him without deviation or mercy: rhythmic, hard swats sending bright flashes of light through his brain. His bottom was hot and felt swollen now, and the spanking still continued. He writhed, feeling a tension building inside of him.

Suddenly Thorin paused in his punishment. Bilbo was grinding helplessly against the pillow, his face bright red, his eyes squeezed shut, panting.

“On your hands and knees,” Thorin directed calmly. He was very glad he’d done what he’d done in the tub, because this was far more arousing than he’d even dreamed. Bilbo whimpered pleadingly, but Thorin was insistent. “On your hands and knees, or I will add extra punishment.”

Bilbo drew his knees up and lifted himself off the pillow. His erection bobbed into view, full and hard for Thorin to see. His own eyes were clenched shut, so he could not know how pleased the king was. But his eyes flew open when Thorin wrapped one oiled hand tightly around his throbbing flesh and squeezed it.

“What is this?” the king asked mockingly. “Why, my little slave enjoys this punishment!” 

Bilbo bit his lips and panted through his nose, staring down at the sheets bunched between his hands. After a moment, the spanking began again. Thorin held his erection tightly in one hand, and spanked him hard and continuously with the other, occasionally barking orders.

“Down on your elbows,” he said, and Bilbo found himself in a newly exposed position that offered his sore, red buttocks up to the rough, relentless hand still slapping firmly down.

“Legs apart.”

Bilbo gave a sob of shame and spread his knees further. His jewels hung down heavily, and the erection clutched in the king’s greedy hand was leaking now. The spanking continued for several moments more, stinging strikes that jolted him as the sweat gathered on his back and sides. His mouth was open now and he panted with every sharp slap on the tight, hot skin.

Suddenly, it stopped. He could feel Thorin bending over his hunched body. The hot hand settled on his aching buttocks, pinching them. He moaned.

“Thrust into my hand,” the king directed.

Mortified but terribly aroused, Bilbo rutted into the rough hand obediently, while the other hand pinched and tormented his aching red cheeks.

“This continues until you express,” Thorin announced, and began spanking again, harder than ever. Each burning smack drove Bilbo’s stiff flesh into his other hand, and the Hobbit lost all pride and shame and thrust himself desperately into one hand while the other tortured his burning bottom. Lost in sensation, he grunted and cried out, his hips working faster and faster, until finally, with Thorin pounding at him relentlessly from behind, he ejaculated with almost painful force into the hand that milked him.

“Argh!” he cried, and collapsed across Thorin’s thighs, gasping for air.

Above him, Thorin gave a dark smile. He was going to have to go toss off in the bathing chamber again. But the waiting, and the process of debauching this Hobbit, was already proving to be delicious.


	11. Aftercare

Bilbo lay on his side, gasping under the covers while Thorin absented himself from the bed for a time, taking the towel with him. He was limp from his orgasm, and his behind burned like fire. When the Dwarf finally returned, he looked as relaxed as if nothing had happened. In his hand was a cold, wet small cloth, and when he’d settled himself back in the bed, he said, he put the pillow back on his lap and said, “Resume your original position.”

Bilbo’s eyes nearly bugged out. Surely Thorin wasn’t going to begin again!

“Now,” Thorin told him, raising his eyebrows in that threatening way he had.

Bilbo crawled back over his lap and clutched the edge of the bed again, but to his relief, the Dwarf merely draped the cold cloth over his hot buttocks. Then he stroked the Hobbit’s bare back and neck with one hand, and ran the other over his thighs. The position was undignified, but the stroking touch was soothing, and Bilbo gradually relaxed. 

Finally, Thorin spoke again. “Thank me for punishing you,” he directed. 

Bilbo blinked himself alert. “Thank you for my punishment, Master Thorin,” he repeated obediently.

“You enjoyed it, didn’t you?” came the deep voice above him. “Say it.”

Embarrassment churned in his chest as he stammered, “I enjoyed –“

“You enjoyed me spanking your buttocks. Say it.”

“I enjoyed you spanking my buttocks,” Bilbo said, beginning to squirm a little in mental discomfort.

Thorin leaned over a bit to stare into his face. “And you enjoyed my hand stroking your tool while I spanked you. I want to hear you say it.”

Bilbo took a deep breath, “I enjoyed your hands on me, stroking me and spanking me… “ he looked up at the king timidly, and was surprised to see that the look on his face was not commanding, but encouraging. Their eyes locked and Bilbo lay there under the warm hands that touched him. “I enjoyed being punished by you,” he finished.

The king leaned back again, satisfied. He lifted the wet cloth, swung it in the air to cool it again, refolded it and replaced it on Bilbo’s warm seat. Then he resumed his caresses. Eventually they both fell asleep in that position, although when he awoke later, Bilbo found that Thorin had slid out from under him sometime during the night, and was on the opposite side of the bed, and only their feet were touching.

 

The next morning, Thorin let Bilbo wear one of his nightshirts again, and he supposed it meant his punishment was over. Balin brought a tray up and Thorin mentioned fixing the bell pull. The old Dwarf nodded, watching with interest as the Hobbit sat down very carefully at the table after serving Thorin his tea. The old Dwarf’s eyebrows went up and he looked at Thorin. The king shook his head and held up his hand, making a small swatting motion. _Ah,_ Balin mouthed, and his eyes twinkled. Bilbo, buttering his toast, missed the exchange, which was a mercy.

When they were alone again, Thorin said, “Since the damage has been done, if you wish to go to the terraces again today to retrieve our clothing, Bifur will accompany you.”

Bilbo’s heart soared for a moment, and then he processed what the other had said.

“Damage?”

Thorin gave him a moody glance. “If you see any Elves, you are forbidden to talk to them.” He put down his fork for a moment and pinned Bilbo with his fiercest glare. “Let me make it clear that this is a punishable offense, and though it turns out you enjoy my… handling of you, it might be wise of you to allow your seat to recover before you provoke me again.”

Bilbo found himself able to look Thorin in the face while he said this, and did not even blush. He nodded obediently. The king looked at him for a long moment, and then his stern visage softened. He looked about to say something else, but returned to his eggs. He ate for a moment and then lifted his eyes without moving his head.

“Never try to run away from me,” he added in a low tone.

The Hobbit felt something rebellious rise up in him, and although he thought Thorin waited for some promise or assurance that this would never happen, Bilbo could not give it. There was a tense silence, and Thorin’s eyes grew quite wide as he stared at his slave. Then they narrowed angrily. “I would consider that a crime,” he warned.

Bilbo swallowed, remembering the king’s ruminations on that topic the night before. He turned to his breakfast and the two ate in silence.

Afterward, Bilbo helped Thorin to dress, and combed his hair, and knelt at his feet to put on his boots. When he was finished, Thorin grabbed him unexpectedly and pulled him in between his own spread legs. Bilbo winced when his sore buttocks met Thorin’s muscled thigh, and the king’s face split into a grin.

“I want to see my handiwork.” He said. “Bend over.”

This did humiliate the Hobbit, but he knew better than to struggle. He bent over Thorin’s knee, putting his hands on the arm of the chair and resting his forehead on them to hide his face. He felt the hem of his nightdress lifted, and then the Dwarf’s warm, hard hand was caressing his purple bruises.

“Yes,” he commented to himself. “I need to feed you up more. Go get the blue bottle.”

Bilbo gave him a nervous look and went to retrieve the bottle. Thorin watched him go, admiring his dark gold curls, amused by his large, padding feet. 

When he returned, the king pulled him back in, bent him over once more, and applied lotion to his tight, sore buttocks. Bilbo buried his face again as the Dwarf squeezed and massaged him. It hurt, and he bit his lips, realizing that Thorin was being rather rough deliberately. Then his fingers seemed to start straying into the cleft and brushing up against his most intimate area. This, too, was undoubtedly deliberate. The silence was broken only by their breathing. The king’s hand grew more aggressive, kneading and pinching until Bilbo was squirming against his thigh and, to his bewilderment, he felt himself growing hard again. 

Was it the years of solitude? Was it Thorin’s intoxicating scent and the growl of his voice and the sweep of his hair? Was it simply the body’s defense to convert pain in this area to pleasure? He didn’t know. He only knew that Thorin was holding him in place, applying more lotion, and squeezing again. Then his fingers went in between and began brushing up and down against that sensitive pucker until Bilbo finally could keep silent no longer and let his gasps and whimpers escape his bitten lips.

At last, Thorin whispered, “Do you want me to stroke you again?” His hand kept moving on that quivering spot. “Do you want relief?”

“Yes,” Bilbo confessed, mindless at this point.

“Say it,” Thorin instructed patiently, continuing to tickle at that aching flesh.

“Please, Master Thorin…” the Hobbit licked his lips and managed, “Please stroke me with your hands.”

With a look of triumph, Thorin turned him around, brought his slave onto his lap, ignoring the wince when his bottom hit the hard muscle, and grasped his hard tool with a large, slick hand. The nightdress was bunched around his waist and Bilbo did not even care. He clung to the arm that wrapped around him and buried his face in Thorin’s chest as the hand roughly stroked his length, occasionally teasing the head. There was nothing gentle about it: the Dwarf made sure his slave understood that he was master. Bilbo’s legs splayed and stiffened helplessly as the aggressive treatment fairly dug his release from him. He convulsed shamelessly under the hand that moved faster and faster until he cried out and came, in a long-drawn out orgasm that made his whole body rigid.

When he finally recovered his senses, he was aware that Thorin was cradling him, staring down at him with a look very like how a wolf regards a fallen sheep. But the dwarf only stood and carried him easily to the bed, placing him on it and turning away to go into the bathing chamber. Bilbo weakly pushed his nightdress back down over his groin and lay panting, staring up at the carved, stone ceiling. His mind was blank.

Eventually, the Dwarf exited the bathing chambers and returned to Bilbo’s side, drying his hands. He tossed the towel aside and put his hands on either side of his slave’s head, his fingers digging slightly into the dark gold curls. He repeated the process of the previous night, demanding, though in soft tones, that Bilbo thank him for manipulating his buttocks so firmly, confess to enjoying the fingers touching him so intimately, acknowledge the pleasure he derived from being stroked so roughly, and say once more than he reveled in his master’s touch.

Thorin leaned over him, the long hair falling over his shoulders and onto Bilbo’s face.

“Kiss my hand,” he whispered, putting it to the Hobbit’s lips. Bilbo kissed it ardently, several times, until his king was satisfied. He straightened up at last. “Remember who you belong to,” was his parting comment. 

When the door had shut on him, Bilbo crawled back under the covers and fell into an exhausted sleep. Food and sleep were what his body needed most. It crossed his mind faintly, before he slipped under, that he had a third thing to look forward to. More sunshine. But later. First… and he dozed off.


	12. Sources of Irritation

Thorin watched as Oin and Gloin carefully maneuvered the broken shards of the throne back into place, pausing to chisel smooth the occasional obstruction. The throne room had been well cleaned, but the golden hills about them were still too vast for them to sort through.

“Uncle,” said a voice behind him, and the Dwarf turned to see Kili, trailed by his much taller mate, the Woodland Elf, Tauriel. He struggled to keep his face polite. She’d saved his nephew’s life and he supposed he owed her. He could at least enjoy the fact that King Thranduil resented her defection to Erebor.

Kili drew up beside him and watched the repair process for a moment before turning to his uncle. “Do we have to let the Hobbit go?” He asked unexpectedly.

Thorin felt something very unpleasant flare up in his stomach. It was rather like food poisoning. “No,” he said shortly. 

Kili looked over at Tauriel, who gave him The Look Women Give, and he sighed and tried again. 

“It’s just that we were listening to the Elven emissary yesterday, and he was… he seemed very interested in the Hobbit, and was saying that most races would consider it illegal to keep him because of how he was enslaved in the first place.”

Thorin turned and gave them both a warning look from under his brows. “The Orcs sold him to Smaug, which means Smaug exchanged gold for him, our gold. Therefore he is part of the treasure.”

“Yes, but…” Kili managed, “They say he wasn’t legally enslaved in the first place. Captured, not convicted was the phrase—“

“The Elven emissary may go burst into flames,” Thorin snapped, and passed his nephew and his pointy-eared woman to stride out of the hall and go supervise the repair of the front gate.

They watched him go. “I don’t think he wants to let the Hobbit go,” Kili said. Tauriel glanced at him. “Oh, you discovered that, did you?” She asked teasingly. He grinned at her and bumped his forehead against her shoulder. 

Outside, Thorin stormed about until his temper cooled. He went from one station to another, checking progress on repairs and refurbishments. Eventually, his footsteps led him in the direction of the terraces, approaching from below and looking up. He realized after a moment that he was looking for a small figure with a round face and a mop of curls.

 

It was Bofur who ended up escorting Bilbo to the terraces. Ori had actually gone in advance to take the clothing down, and when Bilbo awoke from his nap, he found that the clothing was neatly folded and piled in the basket he had left the night before. Ori had undoubtedly tapped on the door, but his timid knock had not awakened the Hobbit, and so he set the basket just inside the door, silently, and had crept away.

Bilbo staggered from the bed to the table, picking at the fruit that had been considerately left behind when the tray was taken. When he saw the basket, he let out a gasp of delight and dug through it, finding his own clothes. His shirt was too shabby to be worn any longer, but his pants and suspenders were made of tougher stuff, and Bilbo dressed himself eagerly, if stiffly. Actually, his seat felt a little better. Maybe the rough massage and lotion did actually help. 

He tucked the long nightshirt into his pants and looked in the mirror. You couldn’t even tell it was a night shirt. He looked quite like his old self. Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End looked back at him. Thinner now, no doubt. But clean and presentable. He picked at his hair a bit. It needed cutting, but overall, he was happy to see himself again.

A knock at the door drew him to it, and he was delighted to find Bofur waiting there with the gannet-like hat about to take flight from his head, and a big smile on his lips.

“Want to go up to the terraces?” He asked, without preamble.

“I do,” Bilbo answered, grinning like a Took.

Bofur made a gesture and started off, and Bilbo followed him eagerly. Bifur startled up from his doze by the door and trailed after them with the weary air of a grandfather baby-sitting for the day.

Out on the terraces, the Hobbit once again tipped his face to the sky and just breathed for a bit. Bifur settled on his whittling rock. Bofur went to the edge of the terraced step, and gazed down the mountainside on the various Dwarves, Elves, and Men who could generally be found on the trail between the new settlement of Dale, and the front gate of Erebor.

After a moment, he pointed and said, “There.”

Bilbo came to stand by him, but couldn’t see where he was pointing. “What?”

“Leg-oh-Lass.” Bofur said, smirking. Bilbo looked down to see a tall, slim Elf with long, shining blond hair conversing with the Elven emissary near the gate of Erebor. He climbed up on a rock for a better view.

“Oh my, he is pretty, isn’t he?” Bilbo commented.

Bofur stared down with a wicked grin. “Makes me want to throw diamonds on the ground.”

“What? Why,” Bilbo asked.

“Watch him bend over and pick them up,” Bofur said with a wink.

Bilbo let out a ripple of laughter and put his hands in his pockets, shaking his head again. Truly, this one…

Thorin heard that ripple of laughter. He turned quickly and looked up to see his Hobbit standing on a rock, hands in his breeches pockets, smiling happily down the mountain. He wasn’t terribly far away. Close enough that Thorin could see the sun making red and gold of his hair, and the breeze moving it. And the cheeks round with his smile. And that silly nose.

Thorin gazed up at him, taking pleasure in the sight without realizing consciously that he was. Suddenly, Bilbo’s head turned and he caught sight of Thorin. They stared at each other a moment.

From his perch on the rock, Bilbo gazed down at the Dwarf king and realized it was the first time he’d really seen him in daylight, under the sun. Yesterday, when he was caught in his clandestine outing, he’d been too terrified to look at him.

But now he looked his fill without fear or shame. Thorin was actually rather a magnificent sight, Bilbo acknowledged. He stood with his feet planted wide, and his hair blowing off to the side. His dramatic features, harsh but symmetrical, were clear-cut and bold even at a distance, and Bilbo almost thought he could see the blue of his eyes visible in the sun. And the shoulders under the velvet and fur were wide, and his stance was steady and solid.

Bilbo pulled his hand from his pocket and gave Thorin a tentative wave. The king lifted his chin in pleased acknowledgement. Then Bofur climbed up on the rock next to Bilbo to see who he was waving to, and immediately the king’s demeanor changed. His head seemed to sink between his shoulders, which rose like an angry dog’s. He turned and stalked away.

The two on the rock watched him go, and Bilbo turned to Bofur. “Has he always been this moody?”

“Oh, he’s a legend.” Bofur answered unconcernedly. “When kids in the Blue Mountains go into rages, we say they’re Thorinating.”

Bilbo let out another delighted cackle, and the breeze carried it faintly to the Dwarf king, who paused in mid-stalk, rotated his shoulders tensely, and continued on without looking back.

“Say, you want to see the kitchens?” Bofur offered, and Bilbo lit up. He wanted to meet The Amazing Bombur, and he wanted to know the plans for the gardens. And if he could help. He came down quickly from the rock, earning a glance of admiration from his be-hatted friend for how adeptly large Hobbit feet can traverse uneven terrain. Then the two of them (trailed by Bifur) went back into the mountain and began the twisting descent into the kitchens of Erebor.


	13. Gardening

By late afternoon, Bilbo was happier than he had been since he was taken captive so many years ago. The kitchens were a warm and friendly place, and the jolly Bombur had taken one look at the Hobbit’s too defined jawline and immediately plied him with more cookies.

Then the two fell to discussing gardening. Here, Bilbo met a kindred spirit. They talked mulch, loam, and ash, picked through the offerings for the compost heap, discussed rotation and drainage and splicing and thinning and pruning and staking and raised beds and irrigation till Bifur dozed off in the corner, and Bofur wandered away to do who knew what.

When Bilbo had finished every last cookie (no painful chore), Bombur gave him a bucket of ash, gloves and a spade, and several bags of seeds, and released him to find his way back up to the sunshine.

By this time, Bilbo was fairly conversant with the passages of Erebor. Some of them he knew already, having traversed them under Smaug’s direction, fetching and carrying, always under threat of immediate incineration if he did not please the dragon. Now he put together what he already knew and what he remembered from the last two days, and after a few wrong turns, he found his way back to the terraces.

Without hesitation, Bilbo attacked the nearest garden bed and began weeding. It didn’t take him long to discover that this had once been the carrot patch, and some remnants survived. Expertly, he picked through the varying vegetation and settled into his work with utter concentration.

The sun on his back was heaven. The smell of earth under his nose was like coming home. And his stomach was full of oatmeal cookies. Really, life had taken a turn for the better. He labored contentedly, taking no notice of time. As long as it was light enough to see.

After some hours, Bilbo gradually became aware that his side of the mountain was in deepening blue shadow, and the air had cooled. He sat back on his heels and looked around him in satisfaction. The amount of work he had done would impress even a Dwarf, and they had a work ethic to boast of. He smiled to himself, taking off his gloves and laying them by his spade. Then it came to him that he had been out of the chambers for a very long time, it was getting late, and … unease sparked in his belly.

He looked up in time to see Thorin emerge from the mountainside, without his furs or armor, casting a rapid and agitated look around. He didn’t see the Hobbit at first, hunkered in the lengthening shadows, and went to the rock where Bilbo had stood earlier that day, gazing down the mountainside. Bilbo watched the king jump up on the rock and stare intently down toward the path leading to Dale.

Finally, the Hobbit gathered up his gloves and spade and went to Thorin, who turned at that moment, saw him, and seemed to wilt with relief. Bilbo opened his mouth to explain, but before he could, his master had snatched him up by the suspenders and shirt and wrapped him in a bear hug that bent him backwards, and made him drop his gardening supplies.

Then he felt the Dwarf’s bearded face burrow into his neck and the sensation sent tingles down his spine. Thorin’s scent filled his Hobbity nose.

“You!” Growled Thorin. “You…. You!”

Then he released Bilbo abruptly and reared back, giving him a glare that should have been frightening, but oddly, it wasn’t. The Hobbit was feeling a little weak in the knees, but it wasn’t fear.

“I’ve been here,” he stammered quickly. “Here the whole time, I… look what I did,” he gestured behind him, and Thorin stared at him for several more seconds, nostrils flared like a bull about to charge. Then the king regained control of himself and took a deep breath.

“No one seemed to know where you were,” he accused.

“I was here!” Bilbo assured him, nervously. “Look!”

Thorin finally allowed Bilbo to lead him over to the carrot bed and admire the order and neatness his labors had brought to the first section of the uppermost terrace.

The king nodded approval and then put his hand on the Hobbit’s back firmly. “You’re coming in now.”

Without protest, Bilbo let the other guide him back into the mountain and down the tunnels to the royal chambers. Just outside the door they met several Dwarves who seemed to have come running from all directions and looked rather like they had bumped into each other mere seconds ago.

“I found him,” Thorin announced, and the relief was evident on all their faces. Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was flattered to know how concerned they were, or miffed to be treated like a slow-witted child who had wandered off. Or uneasy to know that he had apparently worried Thorin, which might lead to repercussions later in the evening. The king herded him into their chambers before he could sort out his feelings, however, and behind them the door shut firmly. Thorin leaned against it, gazing down at him with an inscrutable look in his eye.

Bilbo stood for a moment, waiting to see if the storm would break. When it didn’t, he gestured timidly toward the bathing chambers. “Wash my hands?” He asked. Thorin just stared at him. Bilbo took a few cautious steps in that direction, and nothing happened, so he went in and washed his hands.

When he returned, Thorin was seated by the fire, but not leaning back in his chair, as usual. Instead, he was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hair streaming down on either side of his face. Bilbo’s feet padded to a halt.

He waited, swallowing. The king lifted his eyes and gave him a long glower from under his brows. But he said only, “Take your bath now. Supper will have arrived by the time you finish.”

Unnerved, Bilbo retreated quickly back into the bathing chamber and ran his bath, uneasy prickles dancing up and down his spine.

When the Hobbit returned, freshly clean (still such a pleasure) under a new nightshirt that smelled faintly of the outside air, the Dwarf was locking something away in his writing cabinet. The tray of food steamed gently on the table, and Thorin sat down to allow his slave to serve up his plate. 

They played their parts in silence. Bilbo gingerly filled his own plate and sat opposite Thorin, relaxing gradually when his master seemed to feel as though their evening routine would suffice.

When the meal was done and there was nothing left but fruit to pick at for dessert, Thorin sat back, pushed back his chair, and said, “Come.”

Bilbo got up and pushed his chair in, wondering if there was punishment coming for lingering too long on the terraces. But when he got around the table, Thorin merely pulled the Hobbit onto his lap again, wrapped his arm about the still-too-frail form, and reached for a piece of fruit.

There was pleasure on the Dwarf’s rugged face as he brought the bit of plum to his slave’s mouth and watched it be accepted. He stretched his legs out and put his feet on Bilbo’s vacated chair, using the lift of his legs to cuddle the Hobbit closer to him.

After a watchful moment, Bilbo relaxed into the king’s hold and snuggled in comfortably, allowing himself to be fed bits of apricot and plums, and berries. There seemed nothing degrading about it now. Their faces were close together, and Bilbo risked a glance up. He was immediately captured by the intensity with which his master gazed down at him. Without conscious thought, his own hand came up to smooth the Dwarf’s hair back over his shoulder. The heavy-lidded blue eyes staring down at him took on an almost wild gleam, and Thorin left off feeding him to capture that daring hand by the wrist.

Then, their eyes still locked, the king curled around Bilbo and buried his face in the Hobbit’s neck, opening his mouth to gently take in some of the tender flesh and suck on it. 

Bilbo gasped at the sensation, and went entirely limp, except for his stomach, which seemed to be bracing for a blow. But his head fell back, and his mouth opened, and all he could do was lay in his master’s arms and let the Dwarf suck rosy patches onto his neck and throat by the fireplace. It took no time at all for Thorin to bring his subject to a pitch of arousal that was undeniable.

The Dwarf’s released Bilbo’s hand and went down to claim his erection instead, coming up under the nightshirt with a practiced twist of his wrist. All Bilbo could do was give a groan of acceptance. He was utterly helpless under the mouth teasing his neck, and the hand teasing his tool, moving down occasionally to caress his jewels with a masterful touch. His legs fell apart, and his hands clutched at whatever they could: Thorin’s shirt, the edge of the table, his master’s head… he writhed shamelessly as the king slowly pleasured him, bringing him closer to the brink, but never letting him spill over the edge. Bilbo’s moans grew louder, and he could feel the lips against his neck spread in a smile.

Without warning, the king stood, lifting Bilbo in his arms, and placed him on the furs before the fireplace, kneeling down between the Hobbit’s splayed legs.

“Tell me you want me to suck you,” he demanded, and Bilbo felt faint. “Say it.”

“I—I want, I—“ Bilbo gasped.

Thorin leaned over him, his eyes nearly black. “Tell me you want me to hold you down.”

Bilbo emitted an incoherent whimper. Thorin lifted the nightshirt above his victim’s waist and then slid one arm under the Hobbit’s leg, which rode up on his shoulder as he grabbed his slave’s wrist and held his hand down near that trapped thigh.

“Tell me you want me to pin you down, spread you out, and suck you until you scream for me to stop,” the king whispered.

“I can’t—“ Bilbo panted, barely audible, “I can’t—“ he meant to say “I can’t bear this,” but Thorin gave a wolfish smile and repeated the procedure with his other arm. Now the Hobbit was flat on his back, his legs sprawled over the Dwarf’s shoulders, and both hands firmly pinned to the fur under his own hips.

Thorin lowered his face to the turgid flesh thrusting stiffly out of his slave’s groin and used his mouth on it.

“Aahhh!!” Bilbo gave a strangled yelp, tingles shooting down his legs, and nearly unbearable sensations twisting low in his guts.

“Say you want me to suck you while you are helpless to stop me,” Thorin breathed, uncaring wither Bilbo was capable of responding now. The point of his commands was to let the slave know what was going to happen. His tongue teased the shaft and the glistening head. Bilbo writhed beneath him, unable to escape. 

“Tell me you love it when I restrain you… when I overpower you,” the king suggested.

“I love… it … I do. Thorin—Master Thorin… my master,” Bilbo nearly sobbed.

Thorin stared gloatingly down, and then opened his mouth, took the Hobbit’s erection into it, and swallowed it down his throat.

Bilbo nearly screamed at that, but then the Dwarf bobbed his head, drawing back nearly to the tip and then swallowing it down again as his slave squirmed beneath him, his wrists still firmly in the tight grasp of the large, hard hands.

True to his word, Thorin sucked on Bilbo until he was shouting his release, and soon after, begging his king to stop, stop, please stop.

Once more, the Hobbit was left gasping, half naked and curled up in a ball while his master went into the bathing chamber to quickly work his own release, in order to maintain his self control.


	14. The Arkenstone

When Thorin returned, Bilbo was still collapsed on the furs, his nightshirt rucked up around his waist. The Dwarf gave a dark smile of satisfaction to see it, and when the Hobbit weakly made as if to pull the nightshirt down, his king placed a bare foot on the small of his back and pinned him down. 

“Leave it,” he commanded, enjoying the view of the still-bruised round buttocks.

Then he lowered himself to his chair and placed both feet on his slave, albeit gently. One foot was on the small of Bilbo’s back, and the other on the back of one thigh. Between his feet were the fleshy globes that bore the marks of his hands. The Dwarf stared down at his property for a long time, satisfied.

Bilbo turned his face away.

“Stretch your arms out before you,” Thorin commanded lazily.

Biting his lip, Bilbo assumed the position. The king settled back in his chair comfortably and admired the sight of his slave half-naked beneath his feet.

“Yes,” he murmured to himself.

At length, he removed his feet and directed Bilbo to retrieve the (dreaded) blue bottle, remove his nightshirt, and assume the position on the bed. At this point, Bilbo had little will left to resist and was weary of being uneasy. He braced himself to accept whatever his master did to him, and spread himself naked on the bed most obligingly.

Thorin removed his own clothing unhurriedly while Bilbo waited. He slipped on his cotton sleep pants, mounted the bed, and began the process of massaging the oily lotion into the buttocks he’d bruised.

He was less rough than before, or the flesh was not as tender, because it was not as painful. Perhaps, Bilbo thought hazily, when you surrender, it simply hurts less. To his pleasant surprise, the Dwarf king did not stop his ministrations, but continued rubbing oil into the Hobbits legs firmly. And even the furry feet. Next he massaged Bilbo’s back, which he didn’t know ached until Thorin’s fingers began digging into the muscles. More than once, Bilbo let out a groan of appreciation, and the king’s thin lips curved in satisfaction.

When Thorin had rubbed Bilbo into a well-moisturized, limp rag, he turned him over and attended to his chest and arms, and then gently rubbed lotion into his belly, which still had very little softness to it. Bilbo lay passive beneath the large hands, watching the Dwarf peruse his body as if it were a map, or a possession.

“Tell me you enjoy me caressing you,” Thorin requested, his hands still on his slave.

Bilbo smiled slightly, “I love having your hands on my skin,” he said obediently. “I love when you touch me. I love being naked in your hands.”

Thorin gazed down at him in approval.

“Say that you love being my slave.”

That stuck in Bilbo’s throat a moment, but then he remembered Thorin’s reaction when he’d touched the Dwarf’s hair and brushed it back. He did have some power here, he thought suddenly.

He ran one hand up Thorin’s arm testingly, and whispered, “I love being your slave. I love being at your mercy.”

The king’s eyes nearly closed. Then, as if deep in thought, he moved from the bed and went to the writing cabinet, using the silver key to unlock it. When he returned, he had something in his hands wrapped in black velvet. He brought it to the bed, climbed up next to Bilbo, and then lay down beside him, tossing his long hair over his shoulder.

“There is something I’d like for you to see,” he rumbled, and unwrapped the black velvet to display a large gemstone the size of a man’s fist that glowed with an unearthly light.

Bilbo stared at it in surprise. “Oh, it’s the moonstone,” he said.

Thorin stared at him, rather affronted. “You’ve seen this?”

Bilbo folded his arms behind his head. He was growing more accustomed now to being naked with his master. “Oh yes,” he commented. “Smaug liked it. He used to flick at it with his claw and talk about it.”

The Dwarf looked stunned, his precious Arkenstone cradled in his hands protectively.

“The Dragon… flicked at it?” He looked as if he could not believe such a sacrilege could take place.

“Sometimes. He said it drove the last Dwarf King mad and that it would drive someone else mad too. But I don’t know—“

“Who? Who did he say it would drive mad?” Thorin demanded.

“Someone named Oakenshield.” Bilbo answered innocently. He had been kept too isolated to know how his words would hit home.

Thorin sneered wordlessly, and Bilbo looked at him, thinking that very few creatures of any race could look attractive while sneering, but Thorin was one of the few. The thought amused him a bit, and he reached out and petted his king’s long hair boldly. It seemed to calm him.

“Dragons,” the Dwarf said at last, “love to talk.” He took the Arkenstone from the velvet and placed it on Bilbo’s belly. Then he drew his breath in deeply, as if the sight of his Hobbit with the Arkenstone resting on his naked flesh gave him an unexpected jolt of pleasure.

He slid one arm beneath Bilbo’s knees and drew them up, and then, as if compelled to see the Hobbit wrapped around the stone, he sat up and pulled him into his lap once more, now cradling him and folding him till he was a soft, fleshy cup for the glowing stone. His eyes roved the sight greedily. “You two go well together,” he decided, and for the first time, brought his mouth to Bilbo’s own.

Bilbo slipped one arm around his master’s shoulders and accepted the probing tongue willingly, enjoying the bristling beard against his face, enjoying the wet, warm mingling of their lips. Occasionally, Thorin would break the kiss and draw back to stare at the two treasures on his lap, one oiled and golden in the firelight, the other glowing white in the center. His eyes took on a gleam, and his mouth lowered demandingly to take Bilbo’s again and again.

Soon the Hobbit became aware of a hardness beneath his buttocks. Thorin gave a growl and paused to remove his pants, rolling Bilbo over on the bed with a directive to remain as he was, curled around the stone. When he was naked, he pulled his slave back onto his lap and slid his large tool between the well-oiled thighs. Bilbo drew in his breath at the feel of it. It was very thick.

“Move for me,” Thorin whispered, diving down to thrust his tongue deep into Bilbos’s mouth again, taking his lips with greedy pleasure. Bilbo squirmed on his lap, moving his hips up and down and feeling the hot hardness between his thighs. Though he hadn’t thought he could respond again so soon, it was clear that he was growing aroused as well. 

“Ride me,” his king directed breathlessly, staring down at the stone. Bilbo held it in his arms now, afraid to drop it even on the bed, and his master turned him on his lap so that he faced away from Thorin, who fitted his hard length into the juncture between his slave’s thighs. “Ride,” he demanded again, wrapping his arms around Bilbo and staring over his shoulder at the glowing stone his lap.

Bilbo complied eagerly, working his hips urgently as the king sucked on his neck and squeezed him tightly in his arms. After laboring a moment, Bilbo felt the Dwarf clutch up behind him and give a roar of relief. The hot liquid oozed between his thighs. The king grew still, panting and nearly crushing the Hobbit in his arms. Bilbo reveled in the heat between them, the fine layer of sweat that held them together, and the harsh breath of his master in his ear.

After Thorin recovered for a moment, he wiped his hand between the Hobbit’s thighs, dampened it with his own seed, and grabbed his slave’s tool with a rough hand. “Don’t drop it,” he warned of the stone, and Bilbo held it to his chest as Thorin jerked on him rapidly, bringing his other hand up to wrap around the Hobbit’s neck.

Bilbo’s mouth fell open. He was overwhelmed by the weird eroticism of this moment, desperately holding that stone that his master adored, while one large hand squeezed his throat threateningly, and the other worked his flesh almost brutally, pistoning it relentlessly. It took several moments for Thorin to force another orgasm from him, but he did it, squeezing his slave’s throat gradually tighter as he manhandled the over-sensitive flesh.

When the Hobbit finally cried out an almost anguished release, convulsing in the Dwarf’s lap, Thorin still had him by the throat. He nearly blacked out, or perhaps he did black out. Bilbo became aware, eventually, that they were lying on their sides, Thorin spooning Bilbo, and Bilbo spooning the glowing moonstone.

 _That,_ he thought weakly, _was very weird._ But there was no denying it had aroused them both. As soon as he could talk again, he began without prompting.

“I enjoyed that, Master Thorin,” he gasped. “I love… being part of your treasure. I love it when you make me pleasure you. I loved taking your tongue in my mouth.”

Thorin rewarded him with several surprisingly gentle kisses on his large, pointed ear. Then he reached for his own nightshirt and cleaned them both off with it. Finally, after a moment, he heaved himself to his feet with a grunt, took the stone carefully from Bilbo’s hands, and inspected it for… anything. Finding it still clean, he gave a rather ashamed smirk and wrapped it in the black velvet.

Bilbo admired the king’s wide back and firm behind as he went back to lock the Arkenstone in his writing cabinet. He turned down the lanterns and finally returned to the bed, crawling in and then plowing into his slave and wrapping him up tightly in his arms.

“You both belong to me,” he stated, giving his slave a bite on the shoulder before settling in to sleep. Bilbo pressed his buttocks against his master, earning an approving chuckle, and then burrowed into his pillow.


	15. Morning Pleasures

When Bilbo awoke the next morning, it was to the realization that once a Dwarf has let loose his carnal side, it can be difficult to get it back under control once more. He opened his eyes to find that Thorin had hauled Bilbo on top of him sometime during the night, perhaps in his sleep, and was now stroking his back in a motion more restless than tender, waiting for his slave to awaken. The Hobbit was immediately aware that the king’s tool was hot and hard and pressing against his belly.

“Could I have a drink of water?” Bilbo asked timidly, forestalling the attack for a moment. 

Thorin nodded, gesturing for Bilbo to bring water for him as well. When they had both drunk, and rinsed a bit of the morning taste from their mouths, Thorin pulled his slave back into the bed and bent him over a pillow without ceremony. He reached for the blue bottle, drizzled some of the oily liquid onto his hands, and smeared it roughly over the Hobbit’s buttocks, and between them.

“Arms up,” he snapped.

Bilbo stretched his arms up and Thorin began spanking him in a brisk and businesslike manner. His bruises had faded slightly, and the slaps were stinging but only moderately heavy. The Hobbit wondered helplessly what he’d done to deserve this, but after a moment, he realized it wasn’t punishment. It was merely preparation. Thorin had discovered that Bilbo responded to spanking, therefore, spanking would be an efficient way to bring the blood to his groin.

Bilbo lay biting his lips, bent over the pillow, buttocks in the air, and Thorin massaged them roughly, and then spanked them more thoroughly, and then paused to rub them with lotion again.

The Hobbit’s face heated up as his master continued his deliberate assault. His broad hand covered both buttocks well, and he brought it down again and again in increasingly hard slaps, making the flesh jiggle. Then he gave another rough, pinching massage, making Bilbo squirm with pleasure and pain.

“Spread,” he barked, and the no-nonsense approach shamed the Hobbit even as it aroused him. The spanks aimed lower, concentrating on the sweet spot where the padding was thicker, and the blows fell faster and harder until the sweating slave was gasping and writhing beneath them.

Finally, Thorin knelt between the spread legs and placed his tool deep into the crack between the burning cheeks. He didn’t penetrate, although at this point Bilbo was lost in sensation and may have tolerated it well. But the dwarf wasn’t ready to do that yet, and he simply rubbed and ground his prick against the Hobbit’s pucker, pushing the hot red buttocks together on either side of his own rigid flesh. 

The king lay on his bent slave and rode him this way, scraping the sensitive opening and pinching the aching cheeks. Beneath him Bilbo pushed his aching erection into the pillows, not daring to bring his arms down. The heavy weight on him pressed him into pillows and the dwarf’s furry groin abraded his sore bottom. His heart pounded as he felt the force of the king’s thrusts part him wide and put pressure on his pucker. He was so close.

Thorin gasped and came, his fingers digging into Bilbo’s reddened flesh for a long, gloriously painful moment. Then he went limp and let his weight oppress the still aroused creature trapped beneath him.

When he’d recovered himself, he rolled the Hobbit over without a word and pulled up his legs. He took Bilbo’s swollen tool into his mouth and sucked it while he pinched roughly at the sore buttocks. It only took a minute of this torture to make his slave jack-knife into his master’s mouth, spurting helplessly. Then the king swallowed, wiped his face, and said, “Good morning,” and got out of the bed.

Bilbo lay limp, barely able to formulate an “I enjoyed your early morning assault, Master Thorin” before the king was ringing the newly repaired bell to call for breakfast. His master smirked at him, pulling his clothing on briskly.

“I have much to do this morning,” Thorin informed him, “so keep yourself busy and do not venture where I would not be able to find you. I recommend you keep yourself to the kitchens, the terraces, and here. Come comb and braid my hair before breakfast arrives.”

Bilbo winced off of the bed, staggered to the dresser to find a clean nightshirt and pull it on, and then came to comb and re-braid the royal hair. It was only his fourth day as Thorin’s slave, he thought, his mind boggling at how much had changed.


	16. Golden Treasures

Two hours later, Thorin Oakenshield was sitting at the long banquet table in a silent rage. The table was set on a mezzanine surrounded by a beautifully carved stone balcony. From here one could stand and look down on hills of golden treasure piled in the Great Hall. Dori, Nori, Oin, and Bifur patrolled the Hall well-armed. The gold glittered in the light from the dozens of flickering torches high on the stone walls.

The table had been cleaned and polished, and was now set with bowls of delicacies, and lit with candles (for it was always dark inside the mountain, even in mid-morning.)

At this hospitably set table sat a delegation of Elves come to meet with the Dwarves and parlay about their (perceived) rightful portion to a part of treasure under the mountain.

Fili, who had spent the majority of the four days gathering and inventorying weapons from the abandoned rooms and treasure piles of Erebor, sat to Thorin’s right. Kili, who’d spent most of it trailing around after Tauriel, who was creating an infirmary, was to his left. On either side of the Durins sat Gloin and Dwalin, both well armed with what Thorin explained courteously was “merely ceremonial” weaponry.

Across the table sat a high-ranking Elven emissary, accompanied by several archers, including the son of King Thranduil, the deceptively delicate looking Legolas. They were armed with what the emissary explained courteously were “merely family heirlooms.”

The emissary, some brown-haired, pointy-eared creature whose name, Thorin was pleased to say later, he could not find the time to remember, was pontificating about the diamonds. Apparently, the logic ran, that Dwarves had never particularly valued diamonds, and that therefore the majority of them had undoubtedly been given to them to be set, by Elves, long ago… and then never returned. And were therefore not a part of the original treasure taken from the Dwarves. Of course he could not prove this. It was merely a fishing expedition.

As the emissary spoke, Thorin glared. When he was tired of glaring, he glowered. After that he brooded, and had finally proceeded to sulking when the emissary at last finished his disquisition on Why The Elves Should Have the Diamonds.

“So, you have come to my mountain to tell me why the treasure in my mountain does not belong to me, but to you, although you have no proof that it ever belonged to you or anyone else, nor can you say for certain how it ended up in my mountain,” Thorin summarized precisely, his white teeth visible the way they only were when he was angry.

The emissary, cool as only Elves can be, smiled thinly and said, “If you like to put it that way,” and waited expectantly to be obliged.

Thorin imagined lopping his head off with one clean sweep of his sword, and wondered if the head would fall forward or backward. Or to the left. His left, that is. Because he was right-handed, and the blow would come from the right so logically the momentum would carry the head flying to the left. But it wasn’t anything he’d ever actually tested and he wished now that he could. Just for the sake of knowing.

Legolas narrowed his eyes as if he had an inkling of the Dwarf’s thought processes, and then leaned back in his chair slightly as if he didn’t want to be hit by a flying head.

“I cannot see my way clear to handing over a portion of my treasure simply because you assume my grandfather did not like diamonds. Remember, he was married. There ARE female dwarves.” Thorin said with the most diplomatic smile he was capable of.

The Elven emissary opened his mouth to comment on the attractiveness of female dwarves and the absolute uselessness of putting jewelry on them. Legolas kicked him under the table. He closed his mouth again.

There was silence. Then Legolas looked at Kili, and leaned over and whispered something to the emissary.

“Ah. Perhaps we might take a moment, then, to discuss a different matter,” the emissary said to Thorin.

Thorin reached over to the bowl of fruit and took a grape.

“There is apparently a Hobbit you … rescued from the dragon. Your kinsman has said he might need an escort back to his own land.” The emissary finished.

Thorin popped the grape in his mouth and looked over at Kili as he crunched it between his teeth.

Kili smiled weakly and held very still.

The king turned back to the Elves. “He needs no escort, but we do thank you for your kind offer,” he said deliberately.

The emissary tipped his head. “We were thinking actually of Gandalf, the Grey Wizard. He has a soft spot for Hobbits. If we were to inform him of the situation, he would surely offer himself as escort.”

Thorin breathed carefully through his nose. This was a threat. Give us diamonds or we will make trouble with the wizard over that Hobbit.

Thorin ate another grape, imagining it was one of the Elf’s little tiny testicles he was smashing in his mouth. Surely such delicate creatures had balls about the size of grapes.

“Let us complete our inventory of the diamonds,” he finally said. “It should not take more than four days.” Mahal, he hated Elves.

The emissary smiled. “Four days… hm… that long?”

“If we must stop and play host to a visiting Wizard, it will take longer,” Thorin pointed out warningly. The Elf nodded comprehendingly.

“Four days then.” They smiled at each other, hatred fairly dripping from their eyeballs.

It was a stalling technique. Dain Ironfoot was on his way to Erebor, bringing an army of volunteer settlers, most with military background. Thorin was certain that once there were 200 Dwarves here instead of 13, both the Elves and the Men would become far less assertive about their supposed rights to his treasure. Until then… Thorin smiled hospitably.

“Grape?” He offered.

After the emissary departed, he turned Dwalin, Gloin, and his nephews, “Seal up the gates. We let no further emissaries or claimants in until my cousin arrives with his reinforcements.”

Fili looked startled, “But the Men of Laketown will expect to do more business with us. They need gold and we need supplies.”

Thorin went to the balcony and stared down at the mountains of gold beneath him. “We have enough supplies to last until Dain comes. As for the Men of Laketown, let the Elves help them. They are so very noble,” he added with a sneer, “I’m sure they will not hesitate.”

But later, when he was away from the others and brooding on a pile of gold, he fretted. The Elves would take as much as they could get, he knew. Dain would help him protect the treasure… but he also would consider himself a shareholder, and once he had committed men and weapons, it could not be denied. No matter how he looked at it, someone was going to try to take part of the gold Thorin and his men had traveled so long for, and fought so hard for.

And he didn’t want to part with one single coin.

Moreover, Bilbo was part of that treasure. Thorin had no intention of relinquishing a single golden hair on that Hobbity head.

He brooded for a while longer, his heavily ringed fingers stroking through the gold and jewels about him. At length, his fingers came across a gleaming, square-cut blue stone about the size of his thumbnail. It matched the Hobbit’s eyes. He smiled and put it in his pocket. Then he started looking about him at some of the other shining items, with his slave in mind.


	17. Gold Fever

Bilbo spent another happy morning trotting between the kitchens and the terraces. Bombur gave him paper and quills to make lists of what the gardens contained, and lists of the types of supplies he needed. He pulled weeds, did a preliminary survey, and made his lists. He made Nori and Dori’s acquaintance, and after lunch Ori caught up with him in one of the passageways, and offered to show him the library.

Bilbo hesitated, “Thorin said to stay where he could find me,” he explained regretfully. He wanted to see the scrolls and books the young Dwarf had salvaged. But he was pretty sure his buttocks didn’t need another session for at least 3 days.

“I’ll send word to him where you are,” Ori said eagerly, unaware of the exact nature of Bilbo’s concern. The young Dwarf was happy to have a friend, and had never seen Thorin’s lusty side.

Bilbo was near to wringing his hands when Ori glanced through one of the vaulted, carved stone arches that allowed a view from the passageway down to the entrance of the main hall. “There he is! Let’s ask him,” he said, and trotted off happily in pursuit of the cloaked figure that was striding in from the now-sealed gate. 

Bilbo ran after Ori, not sure what else to do, and in a moment they were both clattering down a set of broken stone stairs to catch up to the Dwarf king.

Bilbo skidded to a halt, staring at Thorin. He was wearing a crown with rather frightening spikes on it. It was… very… wow.

“Thorin!” Ori cried, and the king turned to see them. Immediately he halted, looked at Bilbo, and a slight smile crossed his face. It wasn’t one of his nicer smiles.

“Bilbo,” he said in a voice that was rather like a purr. “I did not expect to see you here. I thought you were either in the kitchens, the terraces, or my chambers.”

Bilbo swallowed. Yep. In trouble again. And the king looked well pleased to have an excuse.

Oin, utterly unaware of the undercurrents, said, “May I show him the library?”

Thorin looked at him and smiled. “Since you have already come down here and asked, you may as well show him the libraries.” Then he looked at Bilbo again and the smile changed somewhat. “Don’t spend the entire afternoon _bent over_ old scrolls,” he advised.

The Hobbit flushed. With one last warning flash of his blue eyes, Thorin strolled away.

Happily, Oin beckoned and set off in the opposite direction. Shaking his head, Bilbo followed. On the way, they passed a tense conference of Dwarves, who glanced at the Hobbit, looked at each other, and continued their low-voiced conference. He recognized Fili and Kili, and Ori’s brothers, and Bofur, who looked concerned.

“What’s happening,” he asked Ori, when he caught up.

“Oh,” said the young Dwarf with what suddenly seemed like evasiveness. “It’s only that Thorin’s being… a little difficult about the gold, and the Elves, and all that. And I think… I think he thinks the Elves want to take you away.”

“Me?” Bilbo was startled. “What do they want with me?”

Ori shrugged. “I don’t know. Oh, here we are. Wait till I show you the things I found!” And he pushed open the heavy door and led Bilbo into the library.

Thorin watched his slave slink away and smiled. Then he turned and went in the direction of the infirmary to find Tauriel.

When he found her, the she-Elf was quite startled to be approached by the King Under the Mountain. He normally avoided looking at her and winced when he couldn’t. But now he was positively polite.

“I wonder if you could help me. My slave has a little problem… he is not accustomed to our diet and I think it’s making it difficult for him to—“

Thorin made a gesture, but Tauriel looked blank. He rolled his eyes briefly but brought himself back under control.

“I mean, in the toilet.”

“Oh!” she said, and went directly to a cupboard, retrieving what looked like a wine bag, but had a long length of flexible hose attached. “Do you know how to…?

“No.” Thorin said bluntly, and listened without embarrassment as she explained in simple terms what he should do.

When she finished, he took it, placed it in one of the bags he carried tied to his belt. From another, he drew a simple silver ring made to look like leaves.

“Thank you,” he said, offering it, and she blinked in surprise. 

“Oh. Oh, this is beautiful… are you sure?”

Thorin gave one of his slight, ironic bows and departed, leaving Tauriel with the notion that perhaps he was not such a dissolute fellow after all. Clearly he cared about his slave’s health. That was something.

Later, when she imparted the transaction to Kili, she was puzzled at the look that came over his face. But her own countenance was so innocent and inquiring, Kili just smiled and excused himself… and went to talk to Fili. Alone.

 

Bilbo had eventually departed the library and retreated to the terraces. He took a moment to hop up on his favorite rock and gaze down the mountainside. The gate was sealed shut now, and there was a gathering of Men near it, conversing in a manner that reminded him of the Dwarves he had passed earlier. Something was clearly afoot.

After a moment, he shrugged and retreated to work on the cabbage patch, always feeling soothed by working in the soil. He did his best not to dwell on whatever would happen later in the evening. What ever it was, he was certain, he would survive and possibly even find some dark excitement in. He shook his head at himself and turned his mind from it all. He’d never been a kinky Hobbit. Well, Hobbits generally weren’t. As far as he knew. Of course, upon reflection, he really had no idea what married Hobbits got up to in the privacy of their homes. Maybe—

A shadow fell over him and he knew without looking that it was Thorin. He looked up, and the king smiled down at him. “I think we need to go back to my chambers now,” Thorin said.

Bilbo’s stomach gave a lurch, but he followed without protest.

Thorin waited patiently for Bilbo to go and wash his hands and face. When he returned, he noted that the king had removed his armor and jacket, and had rolled up his sleeves. Now he was taking off his rings. When he was finished, he untied two bags from his belt. One he placed on the writing cabinet. The other he held in his hand as he guided the Hobbit back into the bathing chamber.

Once inside, he closed the door, although there was no fear of them being interrupted. Bilbo had the distinct feeling it was more about him not being able to run away.

“In what way did you disobey me today?” Thorin asked conversationally, looking down his long nose at his slave.

Bilbo licked his lips nervously. “I… ah… I came down into the Great Hall, which is not one of the three places you told me I should go.”

Thorin gave him a single nod. “Very well stated, Master Baggins.”

Then he seemed to wait.

Bilbo sighed and said quickly, “I accept that I deserve to be punished but… could it wait till I’m not so… bruised?” He asked with chagrin.

Thorin listened attentively and then said, “You may be pleased to know that I considered that, and I think I have found a punishment that will not worsen your bruises, and may even add to your comfort, eventually.”

That should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t, because there was this bag waiting ominously on the counter. Bilbo’s eyes went to it. The suspense was dreadful.

The king smiled and opened the bag, drawing out the device he’d obtained from Tauriel. The Hobbit’s eyes widened. Unlike Thorin, he knew exactly what it was, and what it did, and how it was done. He’d had a bad bout with some green apples once as a child, and… well… it was a medical procedure.

But he was certain that this “punishment” was being undertaken with further activities in mind, and now his heart began racing, taking into account the humiliation and discomfort of the procedure, and the activities the Dwarf was undoubtedly contemplating, and the… just the SIZE of Dwarves in general… relative to the size of Hobbits. The size of Thorin, in particular.

Bilbo’s heart was pounding.

“I will administer this to you, but I will leave you in privacy for its completion.” Thorin told him, with an air of being very considerate.

The Hobbit rubbed his forehead for a moment. “Is there any way out of this?” He asked his master.

“No,” said the other calmly, turning to fill the bag with warm water from the tap. Then he added something from a small bottle. “The Elf said this would make it easier on you. Take off your clothing.”

Bilbo hesitated.

“Making me wait will not improve your experience,” Thorin told him, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. He finished preparing the bag and went to sit on the stool. “Lay across my lap with your arms before you.”

His shoulders slumped, and Bilbo slipped his suspenders off his shoulders.

In the end, it was not so very bad. He’d been across Thorin’s lap enough now that it was not an unfamiliar feeling, and the Dwarf was very gentle. Still, the sensation of invasion, and the humiliation of it all… that moment when he felt the fingers parting him and inserting the tube… he gritted his teeth and clung to Thorin’s leg, trying to stifle the little protesting noises that escaped his lips.

And then the fluid… it made him cramp immediately.

Finally Thorin helped him up and sat him on the stool. He tossed the device in the sink and said, “Clean that when you’re finished,” and left the Hobbit alone in the bathing chamber, hunched miserably on the toilet.


	18. A Harem of One

When Bilbo finally emerged from the bathing chamber, feeling rather like the veteran of a battle, Thorin had long since departed, returning to his duties. Bilbo could only assume that he was free until supper, which would probably be another hour. But he decided to stay in the chambers. He wasn’t sure it was wise to venture too far from the toilet until he was absolutely sure the process was over with.

But he did feel remarkably light and clean, he supposed. A little sore, but that would go away in a few hours, he hoped. Because he suspected he was going to be very sore indeed by morning. Perhaps a hot bath. Yes, probably advisable. He went back to draw a bath, wondering exactly what the evening would bring.

When the king entered his chambers for the evening, Bilbo was clean and waiting in a fresh nightshirt. He was certain there was no point in dressing further, and the king’s eyes flickered over him in satisfaction as he shed his outer garments.

“Feeling better?” He asked solicitously. 

“Yes Master Thorin,” Bilbo answered, feeling a tinge of excitement in his belly.

Balin brought their supper, and they ate in silence. “Don’t stuff yourself,” Thorin advised, and Bilbo froze. “Perhaps later,” the king added. Bilbo helped himself to biscuit and a bit of meat, and found afterward that he was too nervous to be hungry anyway.

Thorin, too, seemed more eager to get to the evening’s activities, and ate lightly. Then he covered the trays and set them near the fire to keep warm.

They both partook of some wine, regarding each other across the glasses. Then Thorin sat back.

“Remove my boots,” he ordered, and Bilbo knelt at his feet and did so. Then Thorin pointed him to the bed, and went himself to the writing cabinet to bring forth the bag he’d placed there. 

Bilbo climbed onto the bed and waited further instructions.

“Take that off,” Thorin said, climbing onto the bed still dressed in shirt and trousers, though nothing else. Bilbo shed the nightshirt and waited, kneeling. Then his eyes widened as the king emptied the large bag onto the blankets of the bed. It was a mostly gold, and some gemstones. The Dwarf spread it out with glittering eyes and then looked at Bilbo. 

“First,” he breathed, “you need a collar more befitting than that hideous iron one in the corner.” He lifted a golden collar, much smaller and lighter, and placed it around the Hobbit’s throat. It was cold, and fitted closely. Bilbo swallowed and swallowed again. It was not heavy, but it was wide enough that he had to keep his head up.

Then, moving slowly, as if hypnotized, Thorin lifted a long, long, golden chain from the pile. As he lifted it, Bilbo realized that it was the majority of the pile. It was very long indeed, and thick enough to be strong.

As Thorin leaned over him to affix one end to his collar, Bilbo shot a pleading look up at him. The Dwarf leaned down and gave him a warm, possessive kiss, but didn’t falter in his movements. The chain was attached. Thorin leaned back for a moment to admire the collar, and then he began wrapping the golden chain around Bilbo’s shoulders and arms, cinching them against his sides. He drew it tight, not tight enough to bite into the flesh, but snug. It went around him and around, lower and lower, until it ran out just above his groin. 

Bilbo looked down as best he could with the collar on. Thorin was affixing the other end of the chain to itself, and now his slave was wrapped tightly in gold down the length of his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. Only his hands were free. He couldn’t move his arms at all.

Thorin gave a sigh of satisfaction. “My golden treasure,” he murmured, and the gently pushed the Hobbit onto his back. The chain was evenly wrapped enough that it didn’t dig into him any way, and Bilbo was surprisingly comfortable, for all he couldn’t move.

Now the king sorted through the jewels on the bed, absorbed in his task. He found the blue stone he’d pocketed earlier and showed it to Bilbo before leaning over and, parting the chains a bit, inserted it into his slave’s navel. It sparkled there, and he gazed upon it with pleasure for a moment before reaching for another piece. This was a golden bracelet meant to wrap several times around a woman’s arm. It was sprinkled with sapphires and rubies, and Thorin wrapped it around Bilbo’s right thigh. It was flexible but tight. 

Suddenly, Thorin leaned over and began mouthing Bilbo’s private parts, and the Hobbit gave a leap and a squirm, and then let out a sigh of surrender. The dwarf teased him to hardness… and then returned to the jewels. Bilbo bit his lips and waited patiently.

Thorin caressed his trussed up slave teasingly as he applied more and more jewelry, wrapping his legs and ankles with diamonds and other gems. There were thick golden cuffs for his ankles. When he was finished, Bilbo was a glittering figure with an erection in the middle. Thorin fingered it and watched as his squirms made the gems glint in the fire light.

“You are beautiful,” Thorin whispered, stroking him with a maddeningly light, slow touch. “Tell me you want me to take you, now.”

Bilbo panted, aroused but afraid.

Thorin gave him a knowing look and doffed his shirt. “Would you like to see what I would put into you?” He asked.

“Yes,” Bilbo whispered, and Thorin shed his trousers and knelt over him, running his fingers up and down the length of his shaft. Bilbo stared. Yes, it was… on the large side. Not abnormally so but… thick. Thorin smiled, and reached over him for a small tin that rested on the table.

“This will help,” he promised quietly, coating himself with it and then adding more to his fingers.

“Tell me you want my fingers in you,” he demanded. 

Bilbo still remained silent, but Thorin did not get angry. He just resumed teasing Bilbo’s erection with his slick fingers. Slowly. Lightly. Patiently.

“You’ll lay there wrapped in gold all night,” he warned.

Bilbo closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and arched his back in frustration. He heard the king give a low chuckle, and then the teasing fingers drifted down over his jewels and played with them. Bilbo groaned. Finally, he opened his legs, putting one on Thorin’s lap, and said, “Master Thorin, please. Please put your fingers in me. Put them deep inside me. Make me…. make me ready for you.”

Thorin’s eyes grew black, and he lifted the Hobbit’s legs over his shoulders. Immediately his fingers parted the bruised buttocks and slid between them. One digit breached him without hesitation and the dwarf moved it in and out as a precursor, a hint of what would come.

Bilbo gritted his teeth. The sensation was more strange than pleasurable, and Thorin kept doing it as Bilbo’s stomach clenched nervously. Then he added two fingers and suddenly it became more pleasurable. The dwarf settled himself comfortably between his slave’s legs and used the other hand to tease his shaft again. 

His slave was panting now, eyes half open, occasionally straining against the gold chain that wrapped him tightly. Thorin added a third finger and pushed more deeply, hooking them around in such a way that made the Hobbit’s eyes fly open.

“Oh! Oh, that’s… that’s….”

“Tell me you want me to take you now,” Thorin demanded, stroking him steadily.

“M-master Thorin… please… please take me, please…. Do it.”

“You want me to fuck you?” The Dwarf clarified with a wicked flash of white teeth.

“Yes, please, fuck –“ he didn’t even get to finish the sentence when all humor left Thorin’s face, and he grasped his slave’s hips, hoisted them up onto his own sturdy thighs. He positioned himself and began to penetrate the bound, glittering creature below him.

Just the feeling of the thick head sliding in made the Hobbit moan in a combination of pleasure and burning pain. The Dwarf clenched his teeth, trying not to lose control. Inch by inch he conquered the quivering body in his power, lifting Bilbo’s legs higher and spreading him further.

Soon the Hobbit was emitting cries of emotion, feeling himself slowly split open and consumed. Now the king was leaning over him, his shoulders pushing the jewel-clad legs ever higher. The king released his slave’s hips and braced his hands on the bed.

When he had finally pushed himself all the way in, he waited a moment, giving his overwhelmed, sweating slave a moment to adjust to the invasion. Bilbo’s eyes were shut and his mouth was open. His curls were falling back away from his forehead as his head tipped back. Thorin admired the golden collar against his slave’s skin.

Finally, he could wait no more and began moving his hips. Every thrust drew another sound from Bilbo, a cross between a cry and a grunt. The Dwarf’s hips slapped up against the bruised buttocks, and realizing this, he thrust harder, a cruel smile on his lips. Below him, the Hobbit was leaking and ready to explode.

Thorin lay his weight down on his slave, so that his belly rubbed against that straining erection. Bilbo gave a whimper of gratitude that changed to a panting series of cries when Thorin’s thrusting resumed its brutal pace. He dug his fingers into the golden curls of his slave’s head and pulled, fucking him hard.

Bilbo gave a shout and went into convulsions. Thorin rode him as if trying to pound him into submission. They both stiffened when release finally came, straining against each other, shuddering. The Dwarf gave a few final thrusts, not wanting to stop until he had to. 

Finally, they both went limp, and Thorin barely had the strength to withdraw and flop over to the side so as not to suffocate his tightly bound slave.

They lay panting for a good while. Finally Thorin rolled his head toward Bilbo.

“Tell me,” he said.

Bilbo gazed back at him. “I loved it when you fucked me. I loved your fingers in me. I loved when you pulled my hair… and I love it when you kiss me on the mouth.”

Moved by that last admission, Thorin leaned back over and gave Bilbo a lingering kiss. 

Then there was a knock at the door. Thorin broke off with a curse in Khuzdul and rolled off the bed. He pulled his pants and shirt on, and tossed Bilbo’s shirt over his groin, leaving him tied up and protesting on the bed.

When the king threw open the door, he was surprised to find his nephews waiting side by side, clearly bracing themselves for a serious talk.


	19. A Serious Talk

Disheveled and not caring, Thorin opened the door and gave an irritable By All Means sweep of his hand. Fili and Kili entered the room and glanced around. There were the remains of dinner by the hearth. There were Thorin’s clothes strewn all over the floor. There was a Hobbit wrapped up in gold chains and gemstones tied up naked on the bed.

Kili’s eyes widened and he turned to Fili. “You’re on your own,” he said, and exited.

Fili looked after him for a minute, muttered, “Damn,” and then turned back to his uncle, avoiding looking at the bed again. He politely maneuvered around so that his back was to the furiously blushing (and furious) slave.

Fili, long known for being a bit more easy-going than either of the other two, smiled and gave Thorin an expressive shrug.

“We should talk,” he said.

Thorin lowered his head like a bull and stared at his nephew.

“The um… the Elves have found out you summoned Dain Ironfoot with reinforcements.” Fili said.

Thorin’s face grew less truculent and more concerned for a moment. Then his gaze darkened. “Who told them?!”

“Oh, who knows,” Fili said, spreading his hands. “They have contacts all over Middle Earth; someone probably saw the armies depart and sent a crow or something.”

Thorin’s brows lowered again. “It makes no difference. We are sealed in, the gold is safe, and my cousin will be here in three days.”

“Kili says that Tauriel told him that the Elves have sent for Gandalf,” Fili reported, and Thorin’s face went from angry to thunderous.

“That will avail them nothing.” He promised thickly, his eyes taking on that burning glare usually associated with a Dwarf drawing his sword.

“I think we must be … strategic about this,” Fili said carefully, risking a glance behind him. Bilbo turned his mortified face away.

“They don’t actually want the Hobbit,” the prince continued. “And I don’t know how much they care about his… situation. They want the white gems. And perhaps they would have waited if they had not been warned in advance about Dain’s approach. But now I believe they intend to try and get the Hobbit and use him for a bargaining piece.”

Thorin’s eyes went to Bilbo in his golden chains, and then back to Fili. “You reason well. They send the wizard to fetch him, pretending to free him… and then they’ll hold him and sell him back to me.”

“Yes,” Fili agreed. “There is only one way to circumvent their plan.”

“Keep that wizard out.” Thorin answered confidently.

Fili drew his breath in carefully. Keeping wizards out was… difficult. Though Gandalf had rarely actually done “magic” in front of any of the Dwarves, he was a mysterious figure to them. He knew things. He found ways to make things happen. It wasn’t that he was likely to fly up over the wall. But it was likely he’d find a way to make someone let him in.

“I think a better plan would be to set the Hobbit free on your own,” Fili braved.

Thorin stared at his nephew as if he’d caught him trying to steal something.

“No.” He said flatly.

Fili continued as if his uncle had not spoken. “We give him gold enough to see him comfortable in his Shire for the rest of his life, we send him off with gifts and food and provisions, and hand him over to Gandalf as if we’d been waiting for him.”

“Unacceptable,” Thorin said huskily.

“And if the Elves are convinced you don’t care anymore, they won’t take him hostage under the guise of “taking care of him while he recovers.” He won’t be hidden away in some gilded prison in Mirkwood.”

Thorin opened his mouth as if to dispute, and then suddenly paused. His eyes slid to the side as they did when he felt threatened.

There was silence. A piece of wood in the fire crackled and settled.

“I will think on this,” Thorin said unexpectedly.

Fili blinked and then smiled hopefully. Then, after coming to the conclusion that this was the best response he was likely to get, he bowed himself out of the room, darting one last wincing look to the silent bundle of captivity on the bed.

When he left, Thorin drew the bolt on the door. He went into the bathing chamber and washed his hands. Then he came back to Bilbo and unhooked the two ends of the golden chain, helping the Hobbit sit up so he could unwrap him.

“We’ll dine now,” Thorin told him complacently, and when the Hobbit was divested of most of the jewelry (the king made him leave the collar, the stone in his belly button, and the golden cuffs on his ankles) Thorin let him hobble to the toilet. When he emerged, the king wrapped his slave in the deep blue velvet of his cloak and carried him to the fireplace.

“I can walk,” Bilbo remarked with some asperity, but the Dwarf ignored his words and settled down into his chair so he could hold his slave on his lap, arms trapped under the blue velvet, and feed him morsels from his fingers. Occasionally, he parted the cloak to admire the blue gemstone in his belly. 

After he had fed the Hobbit all the morsels he would take, Thorin carried him back to the bed, lay down beside him, and occupied himself with putting the jewelry back on him. Now that his torso wasn’t bound with chain, there were different places to adorn.

Thorin wrapped golden vines around around Bilbo’s arms, draped a necklace of sapphires across his chest, moving slowly, still with a rather hypnotized air. Bilbo lay passive, letting his king wind necklaces of gems around his wrists and place free standing rubies on his body at random places. Occasionally, Thorin would pause to kiss his glittering slave, and run his hands through the golden curls. At one point he lowered his face to the Hobbit’s small pink nipples one by one, and kissed and suckled at them until his slave was gasping and cradling the king’s head, eyes wide with surprise at the erotic sensations.

It wasn’t unpleasant, the Hobbit had to admit to himself, to lay on a soft bed with a full belly while one’s handsome Dwarf master caressed you and covered you with jewels, and kissed you, and stared down at you as if you were precious. 

As the evening wore on, the kings caresses became more ardent again, and it was not long before Bilbo was face-down, his arms and legs wrapped in gold jewelry, gems in his hair and scattered on the bed around them. Thorin directed him to put his arms before him, and he wrapped the middle of the gold chain around his wrists several times. Then he attached one end to one bed post, and the other to the opposite. 

Bilbo watched the king reach for the pot of lubricant again and wondered how he would accommodate a second session. The answer came quickly: when you are tied to the bed, you accommodate whatever your master wishes. He winced as the fingers breached him again, slick and thrusting. There was a little pain, but it was not unbearable, and soon the Dwarf’s thick tool was sliding into him again. Thorin took him with deep, slow thrusts, in no hurry.

“Spread,” he whispered, and Bilbo spread his legs, and arched his back to offer himself up in a way that made the king’s tool hit that spot deep inside him. That hot spark of pleasure helped ease the burning, as did the hand that Thorin worked under his hips to tease him to hardness again. 

Fatigued, sweating, head beginning to spin, Bilbo gave himself up to the pleasures of his master, who rode him and teased him long into the night. Occasionally Thorin would withdraw to attend to the Hobbit’s pleasures with his hands, making him beg for release and denying it. Then he would oil his buttocks and slap them just enough to make them pink, chuckling at Bilbo’s stifled cries. Then he would ease himself back into his slave once more and claim him gloatingly. 

When he’d finally wrung every drop of response he could from the panting Hobbit, he sped up his thrusts and fucked him roughly until his own orgasm came. Then he rolled off and they both fell into a coma-like sleep. Bilbo slept even though he was tied and collared. He was that exhausted.


	20. Madness in Great Ones

The next morning, Fili and Kili were both quietly at work before Thorin left his chambers. Having conferred, they agreed that the Hobbit had to be gotten out of there before the situation worsened. Word had come that more Elves in armor had left Mirkwood and were journeying toward Erebor at about the same rate and in the same numbers that Dain Ironfoot’s men were coming from the Iron Hills. They looked to arrive simultaneously.

Gandalf was coming from the North, and it was devoutly to be hoped that he got there before the armies.

Fili’s plan to hand the Hobbit over with gifts and gold was well underway. The Dwarves were busy bundling up supplies for him, and conspicuously wrapped gifts. They had procured new clothing for him, a red coat, a little silver pony just tiny enough that the Hobbit ought not be afraid to ride him. Gold coins had been bagged up. 

There was even a gift for Gandalf (Tauriel’s idea). The wizard was to be presented with a silver belt of woven strands, from which a white velvet pouch filled with medicinal herbs dangled. To thank him for offering himself as escort.

It all should look very much as if the Dwarves were more than happy to graciously grant the Hobbit his freedom, as a mark of the friendship they’d grown to feel for the poor little creature.

And for the most part, the feeling was sincere. Those who had met him, liked him. Bombur made cookies for him. Bofur helped wrap up some bundles of seeds for him to plant in his garden when he got home. Ori found a little book of Dwarven children’s stories, and cleaned the leather binding, and added it to the pile of offerings. All was in readiness. The only things they awaited were Thorin’s reaction and Gandalf’s arrival. Needless to say which they feared more.

It was uncustomarily late when Thorin finally emerged from his chamber. His manner was more brooding and watchful than ever before, but they had all noticed the slow change in his personality since their arrival at Erebor. It was well-known how the Durin line reacted to gold. Even Fili occasionally found himself staring at the golden hills and feeling as though a pleasant sort of trance were coming over him. Only Kili seemed immune to it. He liked that Elf, and it seemed to protect him from gold lust.

“What have we here?” Rumbled Thorin, coming to stand at the entrance of the Great Hall. He regarded the bundles neatly stacked against the wall.

Kili opened his mouth, but Fili lifted a quick hand as if to say, “Let me handle this.”

Balin stood nearby, watching attentively.

“Uncle,” said Fili gently, “If we do have to go through with the plan to fool the Elves, we must be ready.”

He chose his words carefully, avoiding using anything like “Bilbo” and “free.” He knew the phrase “fool the Elves” would set better on Thorin’s ear than “free the Hobbit.”

They all held their breath as the king’s intense blue eyes roved over the bundles. After a moment, he nodded slowly, and they exhaled. “Very wise,” he said, and turned away, his eyes shifting left and right. Then he left the entrance and went back into the Great Hall where the hills of gold still glittered. They watched in silence as he disappeared into the stacks of gold, his steps careful as the piles shifted beneath him.

It was noon before Bilbo was quite himself again, and put together enough to leave the royal chambers. There was no hint of the gem-encrusted, gold-bound slave as the Hobbit emerged from Thorin’s rooms, dressed in his usual white shirt and brown pants, suspenders tidily aligned. He’d even found a simple gray jacket that might have been Thorin’s when he was a child. But it fit Bilbo well enough, and he made his way to the terraces, hoping to simply rest and soak up the sunshine.

When he finally did reach the daylight, Bilbo came out blinking to find Ori, Bofur, Bifur, and Fili all out on the mountainside as well. Ori and Bofur were on the rock, the others nearby, and they were all gazing in the direction of Mirkwood.

Bilbo padded silently up behind them and asked, “What’s happening?”

Bofur held out his hand and helped Bilbo up onto the rock. Ori jumped down to make room. Bilbo stood on the rock and directed his eyes to where Bofur pointed. About half way to Mirkwood was a small mass that seemed to reflect sunlight.

“Elven warriors,” Bofur explained. “Their armor is very shiny.”

“What are they—are they coming here??” Bilbo asked in dismay.

Bofur nodded. “They want the white stones. All of them. Claim they were theirs once and diamonds belong to Elves like gold belongs to Dwarves and silver belongs to Men.”

“What belongs to Hobbits?” Bilbo asked jokingly.

“Food and flowers.” Bofur grinned.

Bilbo nodded approvingly. “Sounds fine.” He went back to gazing at the oncoming army. “Why doesn’t Thorin just give them the diamonds? I mean… he wouldn’t even miss them.”

All the Dwarves turned to stare at the Hobbit.

“You don’t understand our Uncle,” Fili remarked with a little smile. “If it’s in the mountain, he considers it his.”

Bilbo jumped down from the rock. “Yes,” he mused wryly, “I guess I had noticed that.”

Fili laughed. “He’s a good Dwarf, he really is. But you know how most babies, when they first begin to talk, their first word is usually Mama or No? Guess what Uncle Thorin’s first word was.”

The Hobbit thought for a moment. “Mine?”

Fili nodded. “That’s right.”

Bilbo sighed. “So what’s going to happen?”

Bofur spoke behind him. “Dain Ironfoot and his army will get here about the same time the Elves do, and then we’ll see.”

Bilbo shuddered, imagining a stand-off outside Erebor with Dwarves on one side and Elves on the other. This was going to get ugly.

“Alright, well…” he hesitated, and then shook his head. “This is more than a Hobbit can deal with. I’m going to go weed the cabbage patch.” And with that he went over to the gardens and settled in to work. It was difficult at first because… well… his seat hurt. But eventually the sunshine relaxed him, and he was able to lose himself in his work, and shut out all worry about the oncoming confrontation, and Thorin’s increasing obsession with treasure and sex. Because no matter what happened, they needed food. So he worked in the garden. It was his contribution.


	21. Convergence

Fili eventually left the terraces to go down and report to the king. He found Thorin picking through the bundles readied for Bilbo’s departure. Fili approached hesitantly. “Is something wrong, Uncle?” He asked.

Thorin turned quickly, eyes going to his blond nephew, and then shifting about them. “No. I was just checking that he has enough food. The… the Elves might try to delay him, and he’s very thin still.”

Fili nodded, dread filling his stomach. Uncle Thorin was lying, and because he was basically an honest Dwarf, he did not lie well. But the prince had no idea what to do or say about it. “Yes, they might. You are right.”

Thorin gave him a long look, and then said, “Take me to the armory. There is something there I would give to the Hobbit.”

Fili went obediently before his uncle, and they went to the armory. Fili unlocked it, and pulled open the heavy doors. Thorin stepped in with a torch, lighting the lanterns inside the armory, his eyes running with satisfaction down the gleaming rows of Dwarf armor standing ready. Then he turned to his nephew and spoke in his deep voice.

“Somewhere in here is a silver Mithral shirt. I remember it from when I was a child. Help me find it. For the Hobbit.”

The dread in Fili’s stomach eased… this was truly a mark of goodwill. He wondered suddenly if the King’s affection for the Hobbit might work in his favor as Kili’s love for the Elf did: something that might allow him to overcome his greed. Eagerly, he came forth to help the king search for the Mithral shirt.

They found it bundled in an unobtrusive corner. Thorin held it up and assessed it, and then handed it to Fili. “Have this shined up. I want it to glitter. And then tell Bombur that we will all dine formally tonight at the banquet table. Anyone who is not on guard duty should be there.”

Fili nodded attentively and took the Mithral shirt with him to the kitchens. On the way, he confided in Kili about the shirt. Unlike Fili, Kili was more concerned about Thorin poking about in the bundles. “Does he think we’re giving Bilbo too much?” He asked. 

Fili held up the shirt in answer, “He’s adding this…?”

And they both hoped it was a good sign.

When Bilbo finally stood to ease his aching back, the sun was low in the sky. He placed his gloves and spade in the basket and turned to see that Thorin was sitting on the rock in his blue velvet cloak, watching the approach of the Elven army. Bilbo went to join him. Without a word, Thorin offered his hand and pulled him up onto the rock. They sat side by side and watched, the Dwarf wrapping a possessive arm around the Hobbit’s waist.

Bilbo looked out, startled to see how much closer the shining mass had drawn. “They are moving quickly,” the king informed him calmly. “They will arrive tomorrow.”

“And your cousin’s army?” Bilbo dared ask.

“Has also been notified that they must make haste.”

Bilbo watched uneasily. Finally he mustered his nerve and turned to his king. “Master Thorin?” He asked, watching as the thin lips curved into a smile.

“Yes, Master Baggins?” He asked ironically, aware that the word Master meant very different things, depending on the context.

Bilbo gave a little chuckle, seeing the humor in the exchange, but then he said what he had wanted to say. “Why don’t you just give the Elves those diamonds?”

Thorin looked at him out of the side of his eye. Then he sighed and said, “I’ll tell you a secret, my little slave. Sooner or later, the Elves will indeed end up with those damned diamonds.” His hold tightened on Bilbo’s waist as he turned to whisper into the Hobbit’s pointed ear. “But I’m not going to make it easy.”

Then Thorin got down from the rock and pulled Bilbo into his arms. “I must dine with my men tonight. I’ll join you later. Be sure to eat a good dinner, and tidy the rooms, and enjoy a hot bath,” he said affectionately, his hand running gently through the curls. “Tomorrow is likely to be a … dramatic day.”

Then he gave the Hobbit the softest, sweetest kiss he’d ever had. “Tell me you want to stay with me,” he breathed, kissing the Hobbit’s neck tenderly, and drawing him close. 

Bilbo fairly melted into his arms. “I… I do—“ he began, and then broke off confusedly. Never to see the Shire again? Never to see his home again? But the kisses on his neck were so hot and the hands on his back so large and warm. “I do want to stay with you,” he admitted. Because part of him did. He was torn.

“Tell me you love being my slave,” Thorin whispered into his ear, and mouthed it, sending tingles down Bilbo’s spine. Bilbo’s stomach melted.

“I love being your slave,” he repeated dizzily, and finally Thorin released him, giving him a rather strange, triumphant look as he drew away. “Don’t work too long. Come down and eat your dinner,” he repeated, and left the terraces.

Bilbo stared after him, his mind unsettled. Finally, he gave a last look at the oncoming Elven army, and then gathered up his spade and gloves and entered the dark mountain.


	22. Inside and Outside

Outside the Lonely Mountain were two camps. The refugees of Laketown had moved into Dale, but the ruined city was still more of a camp than a city. The Men were working at it, and some buildings had been cleaned and lit, and one could see their windows shining at night. But much remained to be done. The gold that the Dwarves had initially been generous with helped, but the supply had pinched off when the Elves began pressuring the Dwarf king about the Hobbit, and the Men of Laketown rather cursed both Elves and Dwarves for it. Still, progress was being made. The survivors were not starving.

The other camp, made of large, elegant tents, and bearing more of an aura of a city than Dale did, was the camp of King Thranduil. He’d arrived with a nominal entourage, but the numbers had swelled gradually. Tomorrow, the numbers would swell quickly enough that the word “explode” might be more accurate.

It was amongst that second camp of glamorous Elves that an old man appeared, gaunt in dirty gray robes and a large, gray, battered hat. He leaned on a walking stick. His beard was as long and gray as his robes, and his old eyes moved here and there, seeing the situation at a glance. He sighed and shook his head. It had always been said that Dwarves were stubborn, but Gandalf did not think they had cornered the market on this emotion. Elves were just as obstinate. They simply did it with more style. And Men were passionate. In the end, the only creatures who did not at least occasionally disgust the wizard were Hobbits.

Thus his presence in this camp. He had been notified that Bilbo Baggins, a little Hobbit he remembered fondly for his fascination with fireworks and adventures, had apparently been taken by Orcs into slavery years ago. Gandalf was only sorry no one had told him sooner, for he would have strode into a company of Orcs to save one Hobbit. Although, he must admit to himself, knowing Bilbo, he’d wandered too far from home and was at least partly to blame. Still, one must look after Hobbits and children.

Now he was captive of the Dwarves. The Elves were offering him protection if Gandalf could get him out of the mountain. So Gandalf had come, confident that he could reason with Thorin Oakenshield. Had he not helped the Dwarf retake Erebor? A favor was owed, and Gandalf was happy to expend that favor on Bilbo Baggins. His goal was to get the Hobbit out of this area before the Elves and Dwarves started hacking at each other over gold and diamonds. With that in mind, he went to present himself at King Thranduil’s tent and offer his services.

He paused when something out on the plains between the camp and the Lonely Mountain caught his eye. From the ramparts over the gate, a spark of light flew, as if an arrow on fire had been shot from the mountain. As Gandalf stood puzzling over it, he saw one of the Elven guards move forward curiously. The Elf went out onto the plain to where the single arrow burned. When he returned, he was holding a piece of paper. Gandalf drew closer to hear his remark to his fellow guard.

“It’s a note for Prince Legolas.”

“From the Dwarves??” Asked the other.

“No, the arrow was one of Tauriels. You know she went with one of the Dwarves.” 

The other sneered delicately. “One must wonder how that works.”

They exchanged a glance of agreement and then took the note to the largest tent. Gandalf followed.

 

Inside the mountain, the banquet table was polished to gleaming, lit with gold candles, and laden with food and ale. Around the table sat ten of the thirteen Dwarves, the other three being on guard duty. Thorin had given the order for short rotations, so that all would have a chance to dine with him.

Sitting at the head of the table, the king presided with his men. They ate and drank and were jolly. They toasted and sang, and occasionally threw something at each other (because no matter how formal the setting, if no Dwarf women are present, sooner or later, Dwarf men start tossing things.) 

Only to the familiar eye did Thorin appear not quite himself. His smile was wide and his teeth were white. His voice boomed. He ate and drank liberally. But his eyes never stopped roaving, over his men, over the gold below them, toward the entrance hall, and up in the direction of his chambers where the Hobbit was eating a solitary meal by the fire. 

Balin and Fili exchanged a look. They neither of them knew exactly what to expect tomorrow. 

Dwalin suddenly came striding from the direction of the gate. He tapped Gloin and jerked his head, and Gloin left wordlessly to take his place. When Dwalin approached the table, grim faced, a hush fell.

“Gandalf has arrived and is with the Elves,” he said shortly to Thorin.

Thorin gave a knowing little smile and nodded. “I am sure we will see him in the morning,” he commented, and then gestured to the food. “Come dine,” he said, and after a moment, Dwalin sat and reached for a plate. Chatter resumed, and Thorin’s eyes remained watchful.

Bilbo was curled up asleep on the rug by the fire in his nightshirt when Thorin finally came in for the evening. He was remarkably quiet for so large a Dwarf. He slid off his formal armor and placed it carefully on a dresser. He let his blue cloak fall from his shoulders, and draped it silently over a chair. He sank down and drew off his boots with barely a rustle, still intently watching the sleeping Hobbit. He was curled up like small forest animal, and the king smiled down on him for a moment. 

Then Thorin went into the bathing chambers to draw his bath. The running water woke Bilbo, and he blinked, glancing blearily around, noting the presence of the king’s outerwear. He got to his feet and padded into the bathing chamber to help Thorin with his bath. 

“How was dinner?” Bilbo asked conversationally as Thorin stripped himself down and settled into the hot water.

“Good,” the king answered non-committally. “Did you have enough to eat?”

“Oh yes, there’s plenty left over.” Bilbo said, stroking the king’s hair. “Should I take your braids out?”

“Yes, do. I forgot.” Thorin sighed, and they settled into their roles, Bilbo shampooing that long hair contentedly, and the king closing his eyes and reveling in the touch of his slave’s hands.

When his bath was done and they were back by the fire, Bilbo toweled and combed the royal mane with loving attention. He wished they were sitting by the river that ran near the Shire, on a bed of grass in the afternoon, with sunlight around them but them in the shade of an old tree. I’d put flowers in your hair, the Hobbit thought, smiling at the image of the Dwarf lounging in the grass with flowers tucked around his face.

He supposed that was the urge that made the king put gems on him. We want to put the things we love together, he supposed. When he was done with the hair, he stroked the king’s shoulders and neck.

Eventually, his touch so aroused the king’s energies that Thorin led him to the bed and stripped them both naked. Once on the blankets, the king reached for the bag of gold and jewels, and once again amused himself with using the gold chain to create a spider web around the Hobbit. He lay his slave diagonally on the bed, and then drew Bilbo’s his arms up over his gold curls. He hooked one end of the golden chain to the nearest post and wrapped the chain around Bilbo’s crossed wrists, and his arms, and then down around his neck and torso, and then his waist and hips, and finally bound his legs together. There was just length enough to hook the chain around the post nearest his feet. Bilbo stretched out willingly and made no struggle. 

Once he was wrapped up securely, like a fly in a web, Thorin leaned over him and planted kisses all over him. His lips, his neck, his nipples, his belly. He paused to search through his gems to see what color he’d like in his slave’s belly-button tonight. He chose a large diamond, in silent defiance to the campfires burning outside the gate. 

When he placed it in The Hobbit’s belly-button, Bilbo arched his back and moved his hips slightly, smiling.

“You’re a little tease, aren’t you, Hobbit?” Thorin whispered, kissing below the diamond. “I can tease too.” And tease he did, licking and sucking until his slave was writhing in his chains.

“Say you want me to tease you all night,” Thorin growled, and licked the shining pink head that was straining toward his mouth.

“No, no,no,” Bilbo moaned, bucking his hips.

“Say it, or I will stop,” smiled the king darkly, and then he blew slightly on the wet, hot flesh.

“Master Thorin,” breathed the flushed Hobbit, “I want you to tease me until I am begging.”

Thorin swallowed the erection for a moment, bringing forth cries of pleasure, and then pulled off. “Yes?”

“Argh…” Bilbo gritted his teeth. “I want you to keep me tied down and helpless until I can’t stand any more.”

“Do you,” mused Thorin, taking him in his mouth again. “Hmmmmmm…” he hummed deeply, the vibrations sending chills all over his victim.

Gasping, Bilbo said, “I want you to be without any mercy. I want you to torment me till I can’t think of anything but relief—“

Thorin clamped down tighter and bobbed his head. Bilbo cried out in pleasure.

The dwarf pulled off him again. “I can do that,” he promised, and came up to suckle the pink nipples again. Bilbo groaned in frustration.

“I think we need the gold collar,” Thorin told him, and turned back to his bag. “I can make it tighter, you know.”

“Make me wretched,” Bilbo said recklessly. “Make me desperate.”

Thorin’s eyes lit up like blue fire. “You do like to push your luck, Hobbit,” he said admiringly. Then he took the collar and slid it high up around Bilbo’s neck, tightening it till his slave’s head was held proudly up.

Moving back down, he took his writhing captive by the hips and brought his mouth to bear again. Slowly, slowly, he sucked it down, listening to the strangled cries above him. By Mahal, this was living, he thought.

“Tell me what you deserve,” he pulled off long enough to say, and Bilbo strained at his chains and panted.

“I deserve to be sobbing under your mouth… I deserve it… I deserve it… Oh!!”

And this went on for a very long time. Thorin, as it has been said, could be very patient.


	23. We Meet Again

Late the next morning, King Thorin appeared in the hall, looking calm and stately. His hair was smoothly combed and braided with silver and blue beads. His favorite crown was on his head. His clothes were fresh and rich, and his armor sat on his wide shoulders easily. On either side, Fili and Kili came to stand. Dwalin and Gloin stood at the door fully armed. The other Dwarves gathered around, except Ori, who was upstairs explaining to a bewildered Bilbo that Gandalf the Wizard was there to take him away.

“What?” Bilbo asked, still limping about in his nightshirt, picking at breakfast. “What are you talking about?”

Oin nodded happily. “Didn’t you know? Didn’t Thorin tell you? You’re being set free to go back to your home! Aren’t you happy?”

Bilbo was stunned. “… I am?”

 

Down in the hall, Thorin glanced around to see that everyone was in readiness. Then he nodded to Dwalin, who unbolted the huge stone door and rotated the lever that drew it slowly open. Morning light streamed in, cut by the five figures that stood formally in a row, awaiting entry into Erebor.

In the open doorway stood King Thranduil, his son Legolas, Bard of Laketown, a guard at his side, and the middle, Gandalf the Grey, holding his staff.

Thorin’s nostrils flared with rage, and his eyes were heavy-lidded and cold, but his thin lips curled into the best smile he could manage, and he came forward with regal bearing, holding out his hand.

“Gandalf,” he said, showing his white teeth. Fili looked uneasy, knowing that generally, the appearance of Thorin’s teeth was not a good sign. 

The envoy entered the hall and came to stand before the king. Well beyond them, the curious crowd of Elves and Men had gathered to see if King Thorin would release the Hobbit. The Men of Laketown were not entirely sure why this was such an issue, but the Elves were adamant about it, and those who knew Elves suspected that there was something afoot.

The Elves and Men stopped inside the door, but Gandalf continued forward until he was before Thorin. The two regarded each other warily.

“Thorin Oakenshield. I am happy to see you were triumphant,” the wizard said easily, his old eyes moving alertly about.

“We were very fortunate,” Thorin said graciously. 

“I meant to join you earlier, but I was detained,” the wizard added, in a master touch of understatement.

“Well, you are here now.” Said Thorin.

“Indeed,” said the Wizard.

There was a tense pause.

“Would you like some refreshment?” Thorin asked politely.

“No, no… thank you, King Thorin…” Gandalf braced both hands on his staff. “I am actually here in hopes of seeing an old friend from long ago. I understand he’s been staying with you.”

“You must mean the Hobbit. Let us see if we can find him. He’s probably out on the terraces…” Thorin gave a faint sneer. “Hobbits love dirt, apparently.”

At this, Thranduil glided forward, his blue eyes shining in his white, translucent skin. “Do you mean to say you do not know where he is?” He asked meaningfully. The Dwarves all tensed, and Legolas came to stand with his father, looking very much as if he wished he were outside hunting Orcs or something else less… diplomatic.

“Not at all,” Thorin began, coldly, and suddenly they were interrupted by the clatter of Ori coming down the nearest set of stairs from the upper levels, followed by Bilbo, dressed in his traditional Hobbit attire, still looking bewildered and rather hurt.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said in amazement, coming forward and staring at the Hobbit as if, at some level, he had not trusted the stories until this moment.

Bilbo came forward, his honest blue eyes going from face to face in confusion before he settled on the wizard. “Gandalf?” He asked, coming tentatively forward, a bit of a smile on his lips. “Aren’t you… Gandalf? Didn’t you used to come to the Shire and make fireworks?”

The old wizard beamed down on the Hobbit, “I did indeed,” he told him fondly. “When you were just a small thing, and more Took than Baggins.”

Bilbo grinned, disbelieving this moment. He offered his hand and the wizard leaned down and shook it firmly. “I… I… it’s so good to see you again,” said the Hobbit.

Then his smile faded somewhat as he looked over at Thorin, who stood in full regalia, cold and distant. He glanced at his slave once and then went back to keeping a cool eye on the Elves.

“Ori said you were here to take me home. Is that true?” Bilbo ventured.

The Wizard straightened and turned so that he was addressing Thorin and Bilbo both. “I am come to offer myself as escort to return Bilbo to the Shire. I trust there will be no objection.”

King Thranduil smirked. “We are here to offer what assistance we can.”

Gandalf cut his eyes toward the Elf and said nothing. He was fully apprised, having spoken with Legolas, that the Elves had an agenda of their own.

Thorin spoke easily. “I confess we had been apprised of your coming. As you may know, my cousin Dain Ironfoot is fast approaching with… volunteers to help us begin the rebuilding of Erebor. Once he arrives, there is likely to be a great deal of activity. So I do not wish to be inhospitable, but if you are indeed taking the Hobbit, it’s best you do so immediately.”

The Elf King’s smile faded somewhat. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Thorin turned to Fili and raised his eyebrows, gesturing to the bundles they’d made ready.

Fili startled and then stepped forward. “Yes, we have already made preparations for Bilbo… this is not a good time or place for a lone Hobbit. So much remains to be settled,” he said tactfully. He went to the bundles and spoke quickly to Dwalin, who stepped outside to fetch the ponies that the Elves had so kindly provided.

“We have provisions for yourself and Master Baggins,” Fili explained. “And will you allow us to present him with a few gifts before he departs?”

The contingent from Laketown looked taken aback at the speed and efficiency with which the Dwarves prepared to rid themselves of the Hobbit. Bombur came forward to offer the cookies, which Bilbo took wonderingly, blinking back tears. Bofur presented the seeds for the garden, and the red jacket. Ori gave him the book. Balin presented the Wizard with the silver belt, and Gandalf took it with a suspicious mein.

Gloin loaded the supplies on the extra pony and led them both right up to the Laketown contingent, the clop of their little hooves echoing in the vast chamber. 

Thorin stood by and watched in silence as Bilbo, overwhelmed and still clearly stunned, stammered good-byes to the Dwarves. Then, finally, the Hobbit turned to face the king, his eyes desperately searching Thorin’s face as to some clue what was happening, and why.

Thorin reached out his hand to Kili, who handed him a bundle, and he went to Bilbo. The entire party fell silent, watching closely. Thorin held the bundle in his hands and said, “I too have a parting gift for you, and I ask you to accept it now as a token of my goodwill.”

Bilbo merely stared up at him. Thorin opened the bundle and shook out the shining, silver Mithral shirt. “I ask you to wear this on your journey. Put it on now.” He commanded, and Bilbo obediently lifted his arms and let Thorin slide it over his own clothes. “No blade can pierce it,” Thorin told him. Then he knelt down and looked Bilbo in the eye and spoke very quietly. “You keep this on until your journey is over, do you understand?”

Bilbo swallowed and nodded, eyes filling. Thorin stood and stepped back quickly.

“Good journey Bilbo Baggins. Send us word when you arrive safely home. With Gandalf at your side, you are certain of a triumphant return.” He gave Gandalf another white-toothed smile.

King Thranduil, having watched the entire scene with intense focus, said, “I am heartened to see you behaving so reasonably. My emissary had indicated that you considered the Hobbit a slave, and as such not eligible to leave your kingdom.” He used that tone Elves use when they are trying to irritate Dwarves. It’s very effective.

Thorin stared up at him from under his thick brows.

“It was brought to my attention that the Hobbit had committed no crime, and unlike those who labor under Elf overlords, had no reason to be serving time.”

Thranduil shot him a look, not liking the reference to Elves’ use of prison labor.

“Indeed, he is an innocent.” The Elf king said smoothly. “Despite how much of your gold must have been parted with when Smaug bought him.”

“Yes,” Thorin agreed, to the Elf’s surprise. Then he said meaningfully, “If he were a criminal, it would be an entirely different matter.”

“Yes.” The Elf King said. The two kings stared at each other until Dwarves, Men, and Elves alike began to shift nervously.

It was Bard of Laketown who stepped forward and said, “Perhaps we should hurry. Armies are coming.”

Thorin gave Bilbo one last inscrutable look and then turned and went to his throne. He settled on it and lifted his hand. “Farewell,” he said simply, and then sat back as if he had no more to say.

Bilbo stared up at him searchingly and then turned, his hands full of gifts, the Mithral shirt hanging down nearly to his knees, and followed Gandalf to the two ponies that waited just inside the gate. 

Gandalf helped Bilbo up onto the smaller pony, whose mane he clutched nervously, and then the entire party exited Erebor. 

Thorin motioned for the doors to be closed and sealed again.

“Now what,” asked Kili, and Tauriel crept forward from the shadows she had hidden in during this formal ceremony.

“Now,” she said, “we wait to see if Legolas and Gandalf got my letter. If they did, they will not allow Thranduil to impose any “hospitality” on Bilbo.”

“When will we know he’s safe?” asked Balin.

“There are two possible points of capture: going through the camps, and going through Mirkwood. If Bilbo gets through the camps, we will know it. But once they enter Mirkwood…” she shook her head.

They all looked at Thorin to see how he was handling the loss of his bed-slave. He ignored them for a moment, brooding. Then he launched himself off the throne, sweeping through the company of Dwarves and up the stairs toward the terraces.

They looked at each other and followed. When they all emerged from the mountain, Thorin was up on the lookout rock, watching the party from Laketown escort the Hobbit and the Wizard toward the Elves’ camp. To their shock, the golden armored mass from Mirkwood had arrived, and was decorating the plain around the camp. More tents were going up.

Thorin and the company stared down at the tableau until they became aware that a crow was circling over the terraces, dropping lower with each rotation. Finally it came to land near Thorin. He looked at it and then looked up to the hills beyond Dale.

Over the hill came a gray mass that did not glitter, but moved in orderly rows with definite purpose. Dain’s army had arrived.


	24. An Unexpected Development

Thorin retreated quietly to his chambers, and the rest of the company glanced at each other and continued watching the progress of Dain’s army over the distant hill. He was coming, but it would still be nearly an hour. Soon the Elves would notice them, and it was unclear what maneuvers would result.

Bilbo’s company moved toward the Elf camp, and then around it. There was some delay at the midway point, where, they surmised, Thranduil was making his stand to take custody of the Hobbit, and Gandalf was making it clear that he had not come to be used in such a manner.

After what looked like a heated debate, Legolas seemed to step forward and speak, gesturing to the bundles and gifts, and shrugging. Finally, the Elves stepped back reluctantly and let Gandalf and Bilbo progress beyond the camps and toward Mirkwood.

The Dwarves were just heaving a sigh of relief when Thorin emerged out onto the terraces again, and this time he was fully armored, fully armed, crown in one hand, sword in the other, and positively wild-eyed.

“The Arkenstone has been stolen!” He bellowed. “That cursed Hobbit took it from my writing desk! I left the key, like a fool… Kili! You come with me. Fili, you are King until I return with the stone and the little savage who took it.”

Thorin tossed the crown at Fili, who caught it (of course) in confusion. He wasn’t the only one confused. Why would the Hobbit take the Arkenstone?

Dwalin had his sword drawn already, “I’ll kill it.” He said flatly.

Thorin turned, “You stay here. Let no one into the mountain who is not a Dwarf…” then he added bitterly, “except that Hobbit, when I drag him back by the hair.”

Moments later, the gates of Erebor creaked open only wide enough to let King Thorin (followed by a still-very-confused Kili) come charging out of the mountain in full-throttle rage. His hair streamed behind him, his bow and arrows were on his back, his sword was drawn, and he let out a roar that could be heard across the plains.

“STOP THAT HOBBIT!!”

The Elves instantly rallied, soldiers falling into line. But as the King was nearly alone and not attacking them, diplomatically speaking, there was a hesitancy to do more than watch alertly as he shoved right through the middle of their ranks and charged past the edge of the Elves’ camp. Gandalf and Bilbo were less than a quarter mile across the plains, plodding slowly along, unaware of the drama behind them. 

Thranduil and Legolas emerged from the king’s tent, and the Elf king’s face wore a look of fierce satisfaction. “I knew he couldn’t let him go,” he breathed, and they ran to catch up with the Dwarves who were pursuing the Hobbit.

Thorin yanked an arrow out of his quiver and, before anyone could stop him, let loose an arrow that sailed high over Bilbo’s head and landed in the dirt before them. What Thorin lacked in aim, he made up for in range. 

Bilbo pulled the reins on his pony, and he and Gandalf stopped and turned in wonder to see a startling sight. Thorin was charging toward them, yelling as if he were going into battle, his black and silver hair streaming behind him like a banner. Kili was running behind him, looking like a child who didn’t want to be left behind at the market. Thranduil and Legolas were running behind them, and rapidly gaining. The golden Elf army was following their king, and unbeknownst to them, well behind them, Dain’s army was streaming around the mountain and positioning itself before the gate. The entire plains seemed to be moving, and most of it was heading straight toward a frightened Hobbit and an irritated wizard.

When Thorin reached them, he drew back his sword as if he had every intention of hacking Bilbo’s head right off his shoulders. His face was white and his eyes were huge. “THIEF!” he cried. “You betrayed me!”

Gandalf leapt in front of Bilbo, and Thorin held his threatening pose, panting, until Kili, Thranduil and Legolas, followed closely by Bard, caught up with him.

“What,” asked Thranduil, “is this now?”

“He stole the Arkenstone from my chambers!” Thorin bellowed, not taking his eyes off Bilbo.

Indeed, they all turned to look at Bilbo. The Hobbit was wide-eyed and absolutely baffled. “But, but I didn’t,” he stammered. “I never. I didn’t take anything. It’s… I’m sure it’s still in your writing cabinet, Thorin, I’d … I’d never do such a thing!”

“Search his bundles!” Roared the outraged Dwarf king. “Search his bags, search his pockets! It’s gone from my rooms and he’s the only one who had access.”

Bard of Laketown, shaking his head over this mess, stepped forward. “I’ll do it. You’ll find, I am sure, that there is nothing there.”

Thorin lowered his sword. “Do it. I will wait.” He said angrily.

The Hobbit sat quietly, utterly lost as to why this was happening, as Bard opened one bundle after another. On the third one, he froze, staring into it. Then he lifted his head and gave the Hobbit a strange look.

“What?” asked Bilbo.

The Man of Laketown reached into the bundle and drew out a glowing white stone that, even in the light of day, emitted an unearthly radiance, pure and dazzling white.

Everyone gasped. Everyone surged closer to stare. Then everyone looked up at Bilbo. He was shaking his head, eyes terrified. He let go of the reins and lifted his hands. “I didn’t! I didn’t! I swear… I didn’t pack these bundles, I never touched them, I didn’t even know about them!”

“Kili packed them,” Thorin snapped. “Are you accusing Kili of slipping you the Arkenstone?” He turned to Kili “Did you?”

Kili gave his uncle a look and then sheathed his sword. “No,” he admitted, and began chewing his lips. Thorin turned back to Bilbo. “Well?!”

The Hobbit was still shaking his head. “No! No, I don’t know who did it, or why, but I never, I never…. Please Thorin, believe me, I would never do such a thing!” His large eyes were stricken. To have everyone look upon him with such dark suspicion was painful to his honest soul.

Thorin sheathed his sword, stepped forward, and took the pony’s reins in his gloved hand. “The Hobbit is returning with me,” he announced coldly, and without further comment, turned back toward Erebor. 

Immediately, Thranduil stood in front of him. “I think not,” he said silkily.

“When he was an innocent captive, his slavery was illegal, in your eyes.” Thorin informed him coldly. “But now he is a criminal. He has wronged me and as such is my rightful captive.” He paused and then added meaningfully, ‘You said so yourself in my Great Hall not one hour ago.”

Thranduil said nothing for a moment, remembering. _Damn,_ the look on his face said clearly.

Legolas spoke, most unexpectedly. “Let him remain with us and get a fair trial,” he suggested, a look of honest concern on his fine face.

Thorin glanced at the prince. “He needs no trial. He was caught red-handed.”

Legolas shook his head. “Unless he confesses, he deserves a trial.”

Thorin glared at Legolas for a moment, and then turned and looked up at Bilbo, still seated, stunned, on his pony. Thorin took off his glove and placed his hand on the Hobbit’s leg. Bilbo could feel the heat of it through his thin brown pants. “Confess,” Thorin said, staring him in the eyes.

Bilbo was opening his mouth to protest his innocence when he locked eyes with Thorin. There was no rage there. Those eyes were open wide and gazing up at him encouragingly. The king’s lips moved very slightly, as if he were trying to communicate a secret message. Finally, the Hobbit understood. This was what Thorin had planned all along.


	25. Negotiations

Bilbo was utterly unable to speak. Thorin’s hand weighed warm on his leg, and he stared down into the Dwarf’s brooding, handsome face as if he were staring into the sun.

“Confess that you took the Arkenstone,” Thorin said gently, his blue eyes compelling.

“Say you are innocent,” urged Legolas, unaware of Thorin’s machinations.

Bilbo’s mouth hung open. He looked like he’d turned to stone.

Gandalf took in a deep breath, waiting.

Finally, Bilbo said, “I must go back with you,” to Thorin, unable to lie and unwilling to fight his king’s intentions.

Legolas tipped his head, puzzled. There was a ripple through the rest of the witnesses, for Bilbo’s statement was ambiguous enough to be taken as a confession by some.

Thorin’s face revealed the faintest of smirks, and he turned again and prepared to lead Bilbo back to Erebor. He pushed past Thranduil, who watched with sharp disappointment for a moment. Then his face changed.

“Close ranks!” He shouted to his army, and immediately there was a crash as the Elven warriors stepped together and formed an armored mass blocking Thorin’s way. 

Thorin turned to Thranduil again. “By what right do you stop me,” he challenged darkly.

The Elf glided forward, eyes no longer even attempting to conceal their animosity.

“By no right. I think, Thorin Oakenshield, that I must demand that either the Hobbit or the Arkenstone remain with me for the time being. You may take one of them back, but not both.”

Thorin’s eyes widened and his breathing sped up. “You have no right,” he repeated.

“No.” Agreed Thranduil cheerfully. “But my army stands between you and your kingdom.”

“And my cousin’s army stands between your army and my kingdom,” spat Thorin. The smile dropped off Thranduil’s face. Leaving them for a moment, he sprinted gracefully out onto the plain until he could gaze beyond his own army. The look on his face said it all.

Gandalf was simmering. He looked as though he was contemplating simply walking away and letting the Dwarves and Elves all kill each other.

But he didn’t. He said, “It appears we have a stand-off.”

Thranduil came back quickly, eyes flashing, his blond hair lifting off his shoulders as he strode angrily back to the Dwarf king.

“I do not think your cousin will sacrifice his men for either the Hobbit or the Arkenstone. You have your mountain. You have tons of gold—“

“And you have me hostage, as well as my nephew, the prince,” countered Thorin.

Thranduil looked over at Kili and snorted, “Oh you are quite free to go,” he said with mock politeness. Kili just stood there, miserably. “Indeed, so are you, King Thorin,” he sneered. “But either the Hobbit or the Arkenstone stay with me as security until I get my portion of the treasure.”

With that, the Elf snatched the bundle that had contained the Arkenstone and tossed it to one of the warrior Elves in the front ranks. Then he grabbed Bilbo off the pony and began dragging him toward the tents, grabbing the bundle from his soldier as he passed him. Bard reached out a hand as if he would delay him, but Thranduil blew past him like a cold wind.

Thorin lunged after him. 

Legolas whipped an arrow into his bow and pointed it at Thorin’s throat. 

Thorin drew his sword, and Legolas switched his aim to Kili.

They all froze. 

Behind Legolas, Thranduil looked back at Thorin. “Don’t worry,” he called tauntingly. “I’ll take very good care of him. Such a sweet little thing.” And then he dragged Bilbo into his tent.

 

From the lookout rock on the terraces, the Dwarves could make out with surprising accuracy the saga that was playing out on the plains. They couldn’t hear the conversation, of course, or see the Arkenstone, or read anyone’s expressions. But they saw the confrontation, they saw the Elf army close ranks, they watched Dain’s army come down and take up position with surprising stealth for a bunch of Iron-shod Dwarves. Then they saw… well, they saw that no one continued on toward Mirkwood.

Eventually, the company divided and half stayed up to keep watch and see what could be seen, and the other half went down to the entrance to find out what direct messages could be delivered and sent. Ori spent a great deal of time trotting back and forth with information.

Dain had entered the mountain, leaving his lieutenant in charge, and Dwalin and Balin had filled him in on the situation.

“Alright, so—“ Dain summarized cheerfully in his roguish burr, “—the Elves want the diamonds, the wizard wants the Hobbit, and Thorin’s gone mad.”

“Well… yeah, kind of.” Said Bofur. The others looked at him and he shrugged. “He’s nuts about that Hobbit. And he doesn’t want to deal with the Men or the Elves. His temper’s gotten really… iffy.”

The others looked as though he shouldn’t have said it, but now that it was out there, they couldn’t really disagree.

A moment later, someone banged at the entrance. Dwalin looked through the viewing portal and growled, “It’s Kili.”

They let the prince slip inside and he pushed his bangs back from his head and said, “Well, I think we have a decision to make.” He began. “The Arkenstone was in Bilbo’s supplies—“ there was a general outcry, but Kili held his hands up until they quieted, “—and I think Thorin is the one who put it there.”

Fili put his hands over his face for a moment and then emerged with a wry smile. “That’s what he was doing.”

The confusion thickened. It was Tauriel who spoke, finally. “Don’t you see? If Bilbo is a criminal, the Elves can’t argue against his slavery and Thorin can bring him back.”

Comprehension dawned, and Dain chuckled. “Oh, he’s got it bad.” 

“But now,” Kili continued, “the Elves say that Thorin can bring back the Arkenstone OR the Hobbit, but not both.”

“By what right?!” Dain said, losing his sense of humor instantly. His red beard bristled that any Elf should dictate to his cousin.

“They don’t claim to have a right. Thranduil simply says that he must have something to bargain with, and he wants either the Hobbit or the Arkenstone. Thorin won’t leave the camp, and he and Gandalf are in the tent of Legolas. They’re trying to keep him calm.”

Kili sighed. “And Thorin sent me back to consult with all of you. He wants to know if you will accept him as king even without the Arkenstone.”

An astonished silence fell on the Dwarves. They looked at each other. Finally Balin said, “He’s actually thinking about choosing the Hobbit over the Arkenstone?”

Kili shrugged. “I don’t know, actually. He’s torn. He’s obsessed with them both and he’s… he can’t… he doesn’t know which way to turn. But he did say that was one thing he needed to know, and so I came back to ask. I think we should all be present, and I think we should come to an agreement. When we do, I’ll go back, and maybe we can help him decide.”


	26. The Conference

The thirteen Dwarves sat around the banquet table, Dain in Thorin’s place. First, they agreed that Balin should lead the meeting. Second, that Dain should be present and a participant. Third, that Fili and Kili’s vote had somewhat more weight as they were Thorin’s heirs.

Balin called them to order, and then put the question first: “Why not just give the Elves the diamonds? Does anyone here object?”

Most of them did not object on principle, however, it was agreed that if they gave all the diamonds in exchange for Bilbo and the Arkenstone, the Elves might send back only one and increase their demands for the other. That was the first concern. The second was that Thorin would be livid, and it was his decision to make, as king, not theirs.

But they agreed, informally, that the Elves were right when they said that Dwarves as a rule were not particularly interested in diamonds. And of course, there always HAD been a rumor that the diamonds had been the Elves’ centuries ago, and had been commissioned to be set, but then the dragon came and blah blah blah, so … the dwarves supposed, that if the Elves got the diamonds, it wouldn’t particularly disturb any of them.

Except Thorin, who hated Elves with a blazing passion, and had become rather a madman about everything in the mountain being mine-mine-mine. 

Dain listened to this with concern, but said nothing.

“Alright. So what do we tell Thorin. Do we want the Hobbit back, or the Arkenstone?” Balin proposed, and then suggested that they go around the table and each Dwarf should voice his opinion, and his reasons. The vote went as follows:

Gloin: Wants the Arkenstone, because it’s the Arkenstone. Let the Hobbit go back to the Shire.

Oin: Wants the Hobbit, because the Hobbit makes Thorin happy, whereas the Arkenstone is likely to drive him mad, just as it did his grandfather.

Nori: Wants the Arkenstone, because perhaps in time Thorin will calm down if he doesn’t feel constantly threatened with its loss. He might also decide he doesn’t want the Hobbit once he’s away from him for a while. Also, if they get back the Arkenstone, then Thorin doesn’t have to decide between Bilbo and the Arkenstone, he has to decide between Bilbo and the diamonds. And then he’d really be forced to decide what his priorities are.

(This was a fairly complex opinion, and it slowed down the process a bit as they all talked it over.)

Dori: Wants the Hobbit, because once Thorin is forced to choose between the Arkenstone and the diamonds, he’ll hand over the diamonds immediately, there will be no question in his mind, and then the Elves will finally, finally just go away. And this will all be over!

Ori: Wants Bilbo. Likes Bilbo. Bilbo is his friend…. Except wait, Bilbo wants to go home to the Shire… and he wants Bilbo to have what he wants, except if they let the Elves keep him, what if they won’t let him go? Then he won’t be happy at all…

Ori stammered to a halt and couldn’t continue. His top priority was Bilbo’s well-being.

Bombur: No idea. The whole situation is just awful. But tended to agree with Oin… the Arkenstone and the gold are changing Thorin in less time than it takes to make a pie.

Bifur: (shrug)

Bofur: Wants the Hobbit back but only if the Hobbit wants to come back. He would leave it up to the Hobbit.

Balin: Suggests they take the Hobbit back whether the Hobbit wants to come back or not. No offense to the Hobbit, but his freedom is not nearly important as the king’s sanity, and that Arkenstone is bad luck, pure and simple.

Dwalin: Wants the Arkenstone, doesn’t care if the Elves eat the Hobbit for dinner.

Kili: Wants the Arkenstone only because it is right to let the Hobbit go free. He hadn’t really cared at first, but Tauriel convinced him, and, well—(he trailed off with an embarrassed smile.)

Fili: Would not be sorry to see the Hobbit, the Arkenstone, the diamonds, and the Elves all just GO AWAY. Because Thorin is not acting normally, and these are all things that are adding to it. Even the gold was adding to it. He wished that when they reclaimed Erebor, there was only a little gold, just a nice little pile that no one would be so psychotic about. It was gold in huge quantities that made one’s heart catch fire. It was a fact, he’d seen it before, give a Dwarf 5 pieces of gold and he goes out, has a nice meal and a few drinks, and is happy for the rest of the evening. But give a Dwarf 500 pieces of gold, and he hoards it, grows obsessive, and if one piece goes missing, nearly has a heart attack.

Balin waited till he’d finished rambling and then asked, “But which would you choose?”

Fili sighed and said that the Hobbit seemed the least dangerous to Thorin’s peace of mind, but he had twinges of conscience on account of how the king was practically consuming the poor creature.

“You should have seen them out there,” Kili added. “Thorin told Bilbo to confess and even though I know he didn’t do it, the Hobbit practically confessed just to make Thorin happy. He’s… kind of helpless around Thorin.”

“And Thorin is helpless around gold and the Arkenstone,” summarized Fili.

They all turned to Dain.

There was a long pause. The fierce looking warrior sighed and began his contribution.

“It seems to me that Fili and Kili cancel each other out—“

“Story of my life,” Kili muttered, and Fili smiled.

“So if I count correctly among the other ten, the Hobbit wins by a vote of six to three with one abstention.” Dain said. “I tend to agree. Get the Hobbit out of the Elves’ clutches. We can set him free later, when this has been settled and the Elves have gone. Once Thorin has to choose between the diamonds and the Arkenstone, he’ll choose the Arkenstone. But…” he looked around the table, “this does mean that down the road, when this is over… you will all have to decide how mad of a king you can handle.” He cast a serious look around the table. Fili and Kili in particular looked uneasy.

Fili said again, softly, “I wish there wasn’t so much gold. Even I am affected. I want to either give it all away and never look on it again, or keep it all here and … roll around in it.” He shook his head in gentle puzzlement at his own reactions. 

Dain nodded contemplatively. He respected the young Dwarf’s honesty. Then he slapped his hands on the table and turned to Kili. “Let’s waste no more time. My warriors have marched for days. They need rest and food and water, and I’d like nothing more than to see them out there playing cards with Elves while they all get drunk together.”

The others looked at him. He shrugged. “That’s how we make peace up in my neck of the woods. You either kill ‘em all, or whip out the cards and ale. Let’s see which way it’s going to fall.”

Kili rose from the table and went to the entrance. Dwalin, looking sour at being out-voted for a furry-footed little creature with a ridiculous nose, opened the gate and let him out.

 

Then the rest of them pattered up the stairs, through the passages, up another flight of stairs, and out onto the terrace to see what would happen next.


	27. What Happened Next

Bilbo sat glumly in King Thranduil’s tent. He didn’t even know what to hope for. He wanted to go home to the Shire. He wanted to go back to Thorin. He wanted no one to think for a moment that he would steal the Arkenstone. He wanted one of Bombur’s cookies.

Of those four things, one was within reach, so he opened the packet that contained the cookies and started munching. Thranduil, who was pacing near the opening of the tent, looked over and saw him.

“Cookie?” Bilbo offered. 

Thranduil came and took one, turning it over in his hand as if he was trying to figure out what it was. It didn’t look very aerodynamic.

“It’s a cookie. You eat it and it makes you fat.” Bilbo explained amusedly.

Thranduil gave him a cold look. “Elves don’t get fat,” he said, and ate the cookie as if to prove it.

 

In Legolas’ tent, Thorin was in far worse shape. He sat on the ground, knees drawn up, his fingers dug into his hair, and glowered. This had not gone according to his plan.

Legolas kept an eye on him, convinced that he was going to simply go mad and start slashing up the tent. Gandalf reclined calmly on a cot, musing over the strange inner workings of the heart. Hobbit hearts. Dwarf hearts. All hearts were remarkably the same, he thought. Well, perhaps not the Elves. It was hard to tell with Elves.

“Would you like some ale?” Legolas offered politely to the deranged looking Dwarf king.

Thorin stared up at him like a wild thing. The Elf held out a bag of ale and after a moment, the Dwarf snatched it out of his hand and guzzled it down. Legolas wrinkled his delicate nose, watching his guest wipe his beard with the back of his be-ringed hand. The poor Hobbit, captive of this brute. But he arranged his face back into a polite smile when Thorin finally handed back the empty bag.

And it did help, a little. The dwarf leaned back against the cot behind him. _Patience,_ he told himself.

Then Kili was there. “The company has voted and we know what we would prefer,” he said to Thorin, who gazed up at him with his anguish written all over his face.

“We’d rather you brought Bilbo back first.” Kili said.

Thorin got to his feet. His insides gradually began to feel… lighter. It wasn’t a massive rush of relief, because he still very much wanted that Arkenstone back. But to know his men would accept his return without it… that he could have Bilbo and they understood… that was… unexpected.

Gandalf also got to his feet, and his face, unlike Thorin’s, had darkened. “Are we continuing with this farce of Bilbo being a criminal and a slave?” He demanded. “He’s a Hobbit! He belongs with his people, in sunshine and forests… look at him when you see him next. You see how thin and pale he is? Being shut up in your mountain will kill him, and you—“ he turned on Thorin, “you are sucking the will right out of him. You’re scrambling his brains like eggs!”

“He stole the Arkenstone, therefore by rights he is my prisoner,” Thorin insisted, turning possessive again. 

Kili opened his mouth and Thorin looked at him. Kili hesitated. He couldn’t accuse his uncle of conspiracy to wrongfully accuse someone of theft. Not in front of Gandalf and an Elf, that was certain. Kili shut his mouth and backed out of the tent, weary of it all, suddenly. All this wrangling over gold, over diamonds, over the Hobbit. He just wanted to work in the infirmary with Tauriel, and stare up at her while she folded towels and sang softly to herself. He wanted to marry her, and share a bed with her (his heart stuttered at the thought.) He wanted to have little half-Elf, half-Dwarf babies with her. He wondered if they could even make babies. Maybe they’d look like Hobbits, short like Dwarves, but hairless and pointy-eared like Elves. Maybe that’s where Hobbits came from! He stood outside the tent, mulling over this possibility.

Then the tent flapped open and he was interrupted by the sight of Thorin emerging, smoothing down his hair with his face arranged in calm, imperious lines. With Legolas and Gandalf following, Thorin made for Thranduil’s tent.

The guards outside stopped him, of course, but he glared up at them and said, “Tell your king I have made my decision.”

Thranduil immediately emerged from his tent. “Yes?” He said brightly.

“Keep the Arkenstone. I’m taking the Hobbit.” Thorin said shortly.

Thranduil lifted his black eyebrows. “Interesting. Wait by the ponies.”

Then he vanished back into the tent. Thorin ground his teeth at the tent and then went to wait by the ponies. Kili went with him. Gandalf and Legolas went into the tent. 

The Elf warriors around the camp watched Thorin closely as he paced by the ponies.

After an interminable wait, Gandalf came walking toward them with Bilbo at his side, carrying his gifts with him. Thorin lit up when he saw the Hobbit, but managed to restrain himself. “Well, little thief. Back into captivity with you,” he said softly.

Bilbo looked up at him with a smile in his eyes, and let Thorin help him onto the pony. The Elves now parted to let Thorin and Kili lead Bilbo and the two ponies back to Erebor. Gandalf elected to stay with the Elves.

“This isn’t over,” he breathed, watching Thorin lead his slave back into the mountain.


	28. Back into Captivity

The Dwarves watched from the terraces until they ascertained that Thorin and Kili were leading the ponies back, and Bilbo was atop one of them, and then they pattered down the stairs and through the passageways, and down more stairs to the front hall. Dwalin glowered as he let them in. 

They pulled the bundles off the ponies and Thorin said, “Wait,” when they made as if to return the ponies to the Laketown refugees.

They all looked at him. “The Elves still have the Arkenstone,” he admitted, and though he didn’t say it, it was entirely his own fault. He’d lost the Arkenstone in order to keep the Hobbit, and a quick glance around at his men told him that they all knew it. He burned with shame.

Finally, Dain stepped forward and put his hand on Thorin’s shoulder. “Give the skinny bastards those damned diamonds,” he suggested, and Thorin looked as if he wanted to growl, but he agreed.

“I’ll get them,” Nori volunteered immediately. Bifur raised a hand to indicate that he would help.

“I’ll help too,” Oin said, and they went to the section of the treasure where the diamonds had been gathered.

Bofur turned to Bilbo, who was rather hanging back as if he wasn’t certain of his reception. The Dwarf reached out and gave the Hobbit a light thump on the arm.

“You didn’t get far.” He grinned.

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile back. “I never do,” he admitted.

Ori approached timidly. “Are you happy? Because we’re happy to have you.”

Dwalin made a face behind them, but fortunately no one saw it.

Bilbo sighed. “I don’t know how I feel,” he said. “I miss my home. But I would miss Thorin too, and you… and I don’t know what’s waiting for me back at the Shire. If anything. I just… I don’t know.”

Ori nodded understandingly, his little round eyes soft and sympathetic. “Let me help you carry these bundles back up to your room. You can still read the book, and plant the seeds… and eat the cookies!”

“Oh, I ate the cookies,” Bilbo assured him, and Ori and Bofur helped the Hobbit take his bundles up to Thorin’s rooms.

One would almost think, watching the activity in the Great Hall, that the Dwarves were eager to get the diamonds to the Elves, get the Arkenstone back, watch the Elves leave, and finally just stand down from all the tension.

The ponies were weighed down again with caskets of diamonds, and this time Fili and Kili went forth to present King Thranduil with the diamonds, retrieve the Arkenstone, and finally put an end to the standoff.

Later, at the banquet table, they had great fun telling the story. “You should have seen his face! He opened up the casket and dug his fingers in… and I thought we were going to have to get him a towel,” Fili said, sawing into his steak.

The Dwarves roared with laughter. Stupid Elf. 

“I thought he was going to just eat a handful of diamonds,” Kili added.

“Elves eat??” Mocked Gloin. “Can’t tell by looking at them.”

“Hey, you think if they ate diamonds, they’d shit diamonds?” Nori asked.

“They already think they shit diamonds,” Dwalin growled, and the company bellowed with laughter again.

Thorin watched his men celebrate the end of hostilities from his spot at the head of the table. He was very quiet. He had his Hobbit back. He had the Arkenstone back. He had his gold… for now, he thought darkly.

The Elves had their white gems, and now that Dain’s army was settled in encampments between the Elves and Erebor, he had little doubt that, however much they may have planned to increase their demands when only 13 Dwarves stood between them and the treasure, Dain’s arrival would put an end to that.

Tonight the campfires were burning, and the Men and Dwarves and Elves were standing down. Tomorrow the Elves would leave. Then, thought Thorin, he would only have the Laketown refugees at Dale, and his cousin Dain and his men to deal with.

One down, two to go, he thought wearily. Just as he’d given up the diamonds to get rid of the Elves, he now wondered what he would have to give up to get rid of the Men and Dain Ironfoot. He wasn’t happy about any of it, really.

Well, he was happy about one thing: the Hobbit was back up in his bedchamber where he belonged. And Thorin would stick to the fiction that Bilbo had stolen the Arkenstone before Gandalf till the end of time if that was what it took to keep him.

“Not one golden hair,” he said to himself, and then stood.

The Dwarves at the table fell quiet, but he barely noticed. “I wish you all good night,” he said absently, and left to mount the stairs to his chambers.

They watched him go and Balin said, “We aren’t really out of the woods yet.”

No one disagreed with him.


	29. Alone With the King

Bilbo was sitting by the fire in his nightshirt when Thorin entered. He looked up at the king, trying to gauge his mood. The Hobbit still felt very uncertain about it all.

Thorin came in, sat down, took off his rings, and let Bilbo pull off his boots. He looked exhausted.

Bilbo wasn’t sure what to say to him.

Thorin raked one hand through his long hair, starting at the forehead, and heaved a sigh. “That did not go entirely as I planned it,” he said, and then reached out and pulled the Hobbit onto his lap.

Relieved, Bilbo relaxed into his arms, looked up at him, and opened his mouth like a baby bird.

Thorin chuckled and looked over at the remains of the dinner Bombur had sent up for “the prisoner.” He fed Bilbo several grapes, one at a time, his mood lifting.

“Tell me you’re happy to be back,” he demanded softly, staring down at him.

“I’m happy to be back with you,” Bilbo responded contentedly. 

“Tell me you’re a guilty criminal who has no right to ever leave me again,” Thorin said.

Bilbo looked up at him uncertainly. Thorin leaned over him. “Say it,” he growled, sliding a hand up under the nightshirt and caressing one naked hip.

“I’m… But I didn’t—“ 

“You’re guilty of running away,” Thorin said complacently.

Bilbo stiffened indignantly. “You sent me away!”

“Did I?” Thorin asked challengingly. “Did I say you had to go?”

Bilbo thought back. “No, but…”

“Did you at any time say to Gandalf, or the Elves, ‘No thank you, I want to stay here?’” Thorin asked him pointedly.

Bilbo’s mouth opened again, and closed. Then he said, “No.”

“So. You were my slave, part of my treasure, paid for by Smaug from my gold and you belong to me. But you left me. Therefore, you are a criminal. Say it.” And Thorin squeezed him in his strong arms so tightly, Bilbo gasped.

“I’m a guilty criminal who owes you my servitude for the rest of my life!” He said quickly.

“Mmm,” Thorin said, loosening his grip slightly with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “You are very quick with your tongue. Very clever. Tell me you’re a sneaky little Hobbit that has to be kept under tight control.”

Bilbo grinned, finding Thorin’s demands increasingly ridiculous. “I’m a sneaky little Hobbit and you’ll have to keep me under your thumb and at your beck and call every minute. If you give me an inch, I’ll take a mile, so don’t show the slightest mercy.”

Then he leaned up and kissed the brooding face hovering over him. “See what a bold slave I am? I didn’t even ask for permission.”

Thorin squeezed his buttock tightly. “Oh, I’m counting up all your trespasses, Hobbit. Tell me—“

Bilbo said, “I want you to punish me ruthlessly for every one of them. Oh look, I interrupted you,” and grinned, pleased with himself.

Thorin gave the kind of smile few ever got to see. “You! … you..” He stood up and carried the Hobbit to the bed.

“I didn’t say you could do that,” Bilbo remarked. “Oh, look how I forget my place.”

Thorin laughed and lay down on top of him, letting all his weight settle on him and crush him into the bed. Then he pinned his slaves’ arms at his sides. “You’ll pay,” he warned hotly, sinking his face into Bilbo’s neck. Bilbo writhed obligingly under him and tipped his head back.

“Make me pay,” he said, and Thorin sank his teeth in just hard enough to make the Hobbit gasp.

“Oh, I deserved that, Master Thorin,” he breathed, pushing his hips against the heavy Dwarf pinning him to the bed. “I’m so guilty… I ran away, and I argued with you—“ 

Thorin bit him again, gently at first, but sinking into the flesh just enough to hurt. Bilbo’s breath sped up. Thorin moved to his shoulder and nuzzled it.

“I want you to punish me, Master Thorin,” Bilbo whispered. Thorin shot him a look and sank his teeth in again, holding the bite longer. Bilbo gave a soft grunt. Thorin left off and went lower on Bilbo’s chest. He left go of the Hobbit’s hands and immediately they came up to stroke and cradle the king’s head. He held his master’s head close while the teeth sank in and left another mark. This one grew gradually more painful until Bilbo gasped, “Oh, stop, please stop.”

Thorin released instantly. They both looked down at the livid mark in awe.

“No mercy, you said,” Thorin told him darkly, and took in another mouthful of tender flesh, close to the nipple.

Bilbo cradled the king’s head again and arched under him, bearing it as long as he could before gasping again, “Enough,” and Thorin released. They stared at each other for a long moment, and continued on their new game. Thorin moved to a spot perilously near the other nipple. He sucked the flesh in very slowly, tightened his bite very gradually, but tightened until Bilbo cried out again, “Enough.” But he was enduring a little more each time, knowing that Thorin would release when he asked. 

When Thorin finally whispered to Bilbo, “I want to make you come now,” he was covered in bite marks and feeling rather lightheaded.

“Make me, Master Thorin,” Bilbo answered obediently, and Thorin took him in his oiled hand and stroked him slowly while his slave twined his arms about the Dwarf’s neck and shoulders and begged and pleaded most fetchingly, until Thorin finally smirked and sped up his thrusts enough to let his slave come.

When Bilbo’s dizziness had passed, Thorin filled the Hobbit’s hands with oil and lay back, directing his slave as to the exact ways to stroke the royal erection to the king’s preference. 

But Bilbo, being a disobedient and sneaky Hobbit, grinned and went a little slower than directed several times, causing Thorin to groan and utter threats for future retribution, and promises to remember every dereliction of—then he convulsed and came.


	30. Organization

The following weeks were a time of celebration amongst the Dwarves. The Elves packed up their camp and retreated to Mirkwood. The Dwarves of Iron Hills streamed into The Lonely Mountain, found empty rooms to inhabit (albeit about 8 to a room), and fell to the serious business of sorting the gold, and establishing a working kingdom of Erebor.

Thorin watched it with mingled pride and anxiety. Dain’s army had been well-trained in creating large camps that operated independently, and they knew better than his own rag-tag team how to set up a mess hall that could feed over 200 mouths. They took over the kitchen, which fact did not please Bombur, but he made himself part of their team. Well, one of the teams. They put a team in charge of meals, and another team cleaning pots in the rising steam of the scullery, and a third team that rotated with the other two.

They established a repair division to investigate the bowels of the mountain and do more extensive work on pipes, drains, valves, joints, and hoses. There was an engineering team specifically appointed to take charge of the boilers. Dain’s closest relatives took over the armory and expanded it with their own weapons, and set to work cleaning and oiling and organizing. 

There was a large contingent of well-educated, supercilious types that created a supply department, and then subdivided like well-trained amoeba into food supply, gold supply, clothing supply, textile supply, cleaning supplies (and cleaning,) and tool supply. Two officious old Dwarves invaded the infirmary and informed Tauriel that they would help her and Kili create the medical department. 

Another well-educated group declared themselves the administrative branch, and began creating a plethora of paper-work to keep track of the mess hall, supply, engineering, repair, boilers, medical, and weapons. They got into arguments with the supply branch, who felt that their own reckonings were good enough, but admin declared that they reported directly to King Dain—that is, King Thorin, and as such were hierarchically above supply. Supply maintained the admin was support, not advisory. 

There were many snippy confrontations in the passageways between admin and supply. 

The remainder of the Dwarves, those not particularly gifted, were placed on guard duty with rotating shifts, and occasionally put to work moving large chunks of broken statues, and scrubbing things.

The Iron Hills Dwarves created a chain of command that went from the wells and boilers deep under the mountain all the way up to the terraces and the watch towers, and reported to Dain. 

And Dain, politely, reported to Thorin.

But it was clear who knew what needed to be done. Thorin’s background as an ironsmith had made him a hard worker who understood much of the work of repair and boilers. His education enabled him to understand the reports from supply and admin. His experience fighting rendered him comfortable with weapons. And his heritage as the next in the line of kings gave him a sense of responsibility that made him want very much to oversee this undertaking, and guide the rebuilding of Erebor.

But it was Dain who actually knew how to do it. Dain had never had the vision or courage to even dream of retaking the Lonely Mountain. That sort of inspiration and win-or-die drive had been Thorin’s alone. But once the stand was made, and the mountain reclaimed, it was Dain who knew that someone needed to be in charge of the laundry, and if they were going to use that much hot water, they needed a liaison with the boiler teams. Dain who knew that if they were going to get regular supplies from the Men of Laketown/Dale, they needed to establish patronage and prices, be consistent but generous, and create security for the supply lines, and that the security team would be part of the weapons team in the armory.

It was Dain who knew they needed structure, schedules, practice drills, and committee meetings. Thorin could lead a charge into a wall of flame. But Dain could set up a post office.

However… Dain needed a free hand with the gold in order to do what he was doing. To create the budget, allocate the funds, establish the division of assets, clarify the percentage held in reserve, and in all ways undertake the mechanisms of Erebor. 

Thorin reluctantly authorized that free hand… and then watched the gold disappear with tortured eyes. It wasn’t really disappearing, actually, it was being counted, bagged, logged, stored, moved to departments, divided into budgets, designated as goods, jewels, decoration, or capital, and distributed, re-allocated, and converted into consumables. 

In other words, spent.

The spent part bothered him most, as he was certain Dain was being far too generous with the humans of Dale. When Thorin wasn’t brooding in the shadows from behind arches, staring down at the diminishing piles of gold--by Mahal, you could see the floor for the first time—he was out on the terraces watching streams of Men and Dwarves beating a path between Erebor and Dale.

At one level, he knew it needed to be done. At another, it made him ill. It wasn’t what he’d imagined being King Under the Mountain would be like. The first sight of all that gold had dazzled his eyes. Erebor had seemed a magical kingdom, beautiful, sparkling, a fantasy filled with gold.

Now it was beginning to resemble the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills: in other words, an ordinary working community full of bustling Dwarves, and noise. And the gold, which once had inhabited the Great Hall like a beautifully set meal on a perfectly decorated but untouched table, was now being eaten. And what it was converted into, ultimately, lacked the magic and glamor that had lit the gold fever inside of Thorin.

He listened to Dain’s perfunctory reports, and agreed to all his suggestions (because they were good, actually, and because he himself would never have thought of most of them.) But increasingly, Thorin retreated to the two things that made him happy and allowed himself to shut out the disturbing changes: Bilbo, and the Arkenstone.


	31. A Bird's Eye View

Bilbo’s reaction to the explosion of change was the polar opposite of Thorin’s. The Hobbit was fascinated! The piles of gold, which had always seemed to him little more than a shiny, overwhelming mess that made it difficult to walk through the Great Hall, were being tidied away and converted into useful things. This was wonderful! Whenever Thorin didn’t demand his attentions, Bilbo went trotting out to watch Erebor evolve under his eyes. The whole process looked to him like the inside workings of a giant clock, with hundreds of gears turning everywhere.

So different from the years he sat in semi-darkness, watching the gold gleam silently in the shadows, moving only when the dragon shifted.

The Hobbit couldn’t say exactly that he understood everything that was happening, but watching the activity made him feel… oh, so much less lonely than he’d been accustomed to feeling in his years of slavery, alone in the empty hall with nothing but that ill-tempered dragon for company. Just watching the floor slowly appear as the gold was carted away was a wonder to him. And there were moments that made his heart just soar, for some reason.

For instance, the tapestry. Dain had insisted that there must be a tapestry on the floor before the throne. Every throne room he’d ever seen had boasted a tapestry. For one thing, the absorbency cut down on the echoes in the vast hall. For another it marked a border. You put it in front of the throne, and then you set up protocols for who could approach only to the edge of the tapestry (soldiers reporting to the king with dirty boots, for instance) and who could step onto it (visiting dignitaries and courtiers, with clean boots, basically.)

But the tapestry should tell a story, and Dain had commissioned the Elves of Mirkwood to weave one. Unlike Thorin, Dain’s policy was that the minute Thranduil handed back the Arkenstone and accepted the diamonds, it was time to shake hands and start trade. Accordingly, he went straight out to the Elf camp before they’d even packed up to leave and set about finding out which Elves came from families with looms. 

Thus, two weeks later, a trunk full of sapphires and emeralds went out to Mirkwood (Elves found rubies vulgar, but sapphires and emeralds were tolerable) and in return, a rug the size of a dragon’s bed returned. It took ten Dwarves, well spaced, to carry in the thick, rolled up piece of art.

When the roll was placed, the floor cleared, and the grand unrolling about to begin, Dain sent for Thorin. It was meant to be a very grand gesture on Dain’s part. The unrolling of the royal tapestry was like the raising of a flag, or the setting of the Arkenstone in the throne (which had not been done yet.)

Dain stood at the railing by the banquet table, looking down on the process below him in the Great Hall, and held up his hand to delay the ten Dwarves who were all set to roll out the tapestry.

“Where is Thorin,” he called, and everyone looked around and shrugged. 

Bilbo, who was hovering nearby, said, “I’ll find him!” and pattered off to check the royal chambers.

Sure enough, Thorin was inside, sitting by the fire, the Arkenstone glowing in his hands. Bilbo came in, panting from his run up the stairs.

“Come see the tapestry Dain ordered for you!” He gasped.

Thorin did not look up from the glowing stone. “I came up here looking for you, but you were not here,” he stated in a low tone.

Bilbo came to him, caressing his arms and shoulders. “I’m sorry, I was watching them get the Great Hall ready for the tapestry. They’re going to roll it out! Come see!”

Thorin didn’t move. “You know I do not like it when I don’t know where you are.”

Bilbo gazed at him rather sadly for a moment. He wasn’t blind to the king’s deteriorating morale. He came around and knelt between Thorin’s boots, and pushed himself up under the Arkenstone to capture the Dwarf’s moody gaze.

“Come see the tapestry, and then we’ll come back here,” he suggested gently, rubbing his hands on the king’s thighs. 

Thorin stared broodingly down at him for several moments, and then straightened. “Very well,” he said, with a visible lack of enthusiasm. He stood, locked the Arkenstone away, and followed Bilbo to the banquet hall overlooking the Great Hall. Dain awaited him at the railing.

“There you are!” He boomed cheerfully. “Come see the great unveiling, or unrolling, if you will.”

Thorin came and stood beside Dain. “Wait for me in our rooms,” he directed Bilbo, whose heart fell immediately.

“But… can’t I see?”

Thorin opened his mouth to repeat his order and Dain, who was paying more attention to the ten Dwarves awaiting his instruction than to Thorin or Bilbo, said, “Oh come, cousin, let the Hobbit see,” and then raised his hand and gave the direction to unroll.

Thorin’s hands gripped the rail as if he would rip it loose, and his head lowered warningly, but Dain was focused on the tapestry, and Bilbo, not hearing any response, hesitated hopefully.

Then the rug began to unroll, and the oohs and aahs of appreciation all over the Hall distracted all three of them.

It was a masterpiece.

The background was a deep red, and the edges were worked with row upon row of repeating patterns, some geometric, almost gem-like, others were vines and leaves. In the center, a golden dragon spread its wings and breathed fire into the air. Before him was a remarkably accurate depiction of Thorin, hair streaming back as if windblown, sword held defensively across his chest. Around Thorin were several shields with different emblems. A map of Middle Earth was discernable in the background, with scenes from everywhere the Dwarves had ventured, from the Blue Mountains to Laketown.

Bilbo was open-mouthed with awe. 

Thorin looked upon it with a rather cynical air. “I didn’t kill the dragon, cousin,” he said.

Dale pointed, “That’s why it’s alive in the pattern. If you’d killed it, it would be dead. That it’s alive means you confronted it. That your sword is across your chest also means that you confronted it, but you survived. If you’d died in that event, your sword would be over your head. It’s in your right hand; that represents that you went on the offensive. Left hand would indicate that the dragon had come to you. That’s your father’s ring on your finger. If you look, the Arkenstone is on the ground between your feet. That it’s between your feet means that’s what you were protecting. If it were to the right of your feet, it would mean that it was treasure you’d found. To the left would mean treasure you lost.”

Bilbo listened in fascination as Dain leaned over the balcony and continued to explain the symbolism of the tapestry.

“The shields represent the men of your company. I looked up every family they’re related to for 3 generations back. The closer the shield is to you, the more closely they are related to the Durin line. The map shows your journey, obviously. The larger the scene, the longer you spent there. The red on the background represents vengeance – against Smaug, mostly. The borders are, if you look closely, repeating flags representing the Blue Mountains, Erebor, Moria, and the Iron Hills – that’s traditional. The vines are actually the Mirkwood Elves’ trademark. They put them on all the tapestries they make. Rivendell makes them too, but they use silver birds as their trademark, just so you know if you’re ever looking at rugs…”

Bilbo drank up the information. The tapestry, which a moment before had been merely a beautiful decoration, was now full of symbolic meaning and secret messages. He was riveted. Next to him, Thorin stared down at him with a dangerously intent look. His eyes, deep under his overhanging brows, went from Bilbo to Dain and back again several times.

Eventually, Thorin’s eyes shifted around cautiously, and then he lifted his head and forced a smile.

“This tapestry is truly impressive, cousin,” he said formally. “The Great Hall is nearly as it once was. I thank you for your tireless efforts.”

Dain nodded, looking pleased. “It nearly is. Just have to set the Arkenstone in the throne. You see they repaired it. It’s ready. I thought I’d have Dwabin, my stone-cutter, set it tomorrow if you have no objection.”

Thorin seemed to pale. “Tomorrow?”

Dain nodded. “If you approve it. We’ve had word that several parties have set out from the Blue Mountains to come and resettle the homeland. I’d like it to be as welcoming and ready as possible when they begin to arrive.” 

Thorin seem to settle more deeply into thought.

Dain added, “Many of them are relatives of yours, so they’ll be wanting to file official claims. We’ll need to focus on readying more living space, and once that’s the priority, progress in the Hall is likely to slow down.”

Claimants, Thorin’s mind echoed bitterly. Oh yes, more and more claimants for the gold. All those distant relatives who had not heeded his initial call, but had perhaps contributed some tiny bit of funding for the journey and would now expect to be repaid twenty-fold. Yes, they’d be coming to take “their” portion. 

Thorin looked to the back of the hall. There still were piles of gold back there. A third of what had flooded the rooms when they’d first arrived. He recalled his so-called friends and neighbors from the Blue Mountains, all the ones who’d advised him against this suicidal quest, and laughed a bit when he’d set out, and had shook their heads and said that poor Thorin would end up just like his father and grandfather.

They’d be coming with buckets now. To fill. With the gold he’d won for them. 

Bilbo and Dain both became aware that Thorin was eerily quiet and still.  
It suddenly came back to Bilbo that Thorin had told him to wait in the royal chambers. All at once, that seemed like an excellent suggestion. Bilbo slipped away as quietly as his Hobbity feet could carry him. He hoped that once the Arkenstone was set in the throne, and King Thorin was sitting upon it, welcoming his kin, that his master’s mood would lighten.

Bilbo also mused that it might be helpful if, pretty soon… Dain went home.


	32. The Arkenstone Issue

Thorin stayed by the banquet table to stare down at the tapestry till Dain had gone off to check on something else that he knew how to do and Thorin didn’t. The king cast a glance at his cousin’s retreating figure. He’d exchanged Thranduil for Dain in terms of an irritant.

After a moment, he glanced around for Bilbo. Oh, wonderful, his slave had taken the first opportunity to sneak away as well. Thorin’s heart burned as if he’d been rejected. Then he took a deep breath and tried to clear the feeling. Probably, the Hobbit had gone back to the terraces. 

Thorin passed through the halls, eyes sliding from side to side as if expecting some problem, but all he saw were Dwarves casting him inquisitive glances. Yes, that’s right, watch my every move, he brooded. When he finally gained the terraces and went to look in the gardens, Bilbo was not there. The black feeling in his chest worsened. Hiding from me, he thought. Avoiding me.

The Dwarf king went to stand on the lookout rock and glare down at the steady traffic of Men and Dwarves traveling between Erebor and Dale. Oh yes, he fumed. Come get “your share” of the gold I nearly died reclaiming. Come get “your share” of the gold that the Dwarves spent centuries mining.

Fili entered the terraces looking for Thorin, and when he saw him, his heart gave a nervous thump. He was about to issue some information that he was not sure would please his uncle. But increasingly, it was difficult to please his uncle. Only the Hobbit could do it, and -- Fili glanced about -- the Hobbit was nowhere in sight.

He sighed, rotated his shoulders to loosen them, and then plastered a carefree expression on his handsome young face.

“Uncle,” he said.

Thorin turned and stared at him expressionlessly.

“Good news… your throne is ready to receive the Arkenstone. If you’ll let me take it to Master Dwabin, he’s going to set it. We can have an unveiling tomorrow—“ Fili broke off, having almost finished with “Dain says.” Probably best to leave the “Dain says,” off, he decided.

Thorin’s head seemed to settle more deeply between his shoulders, and Fili’s heart sank immediately. Bad sign, he knew this from childhood.

“And why is Master Dwabin the chosen one?” Thorin growled. “This is an honor. Why not Gloin? He’s perfectly capable. Why did Dain choose one of his own relatives instead of one of my company?”

Fili opened his mouth to explain, or justify Dain’s decision, but in a moment of diplomatic mastery, he lowered his brows and said sternly, “By Mahal, Uncle, you are right! Why should not one of our company set the Arkenstone! I’ll go and confront Dain at once! Keep it in your room, do not let anyone take it to Dwabin. We’ll settle this once and for all!”

Satisfied, Thorin turned back to glare down the mountainside again.

Fili went down to the Great Hall, found Balin, and drew him aside. “Uncle’s losing it,” he said bluntly, and described the problem.

Balin listened sadly, and shook his head. “He’s stalling. He doesn’t want to give up the Arkenstone. Once it’s in the throne, he has no more control over it.”

“What do we do?” asked Fili quietly, glancing around to see that no one overheard.

Balin sighed, stroking his long, white beard. “Let’s see if Dain will concede this small gesture. If nothing else, it removes Thorin’s excuse. And perhaps, once it’s in the throne… ?”

The pair went to Dain, who was sitting in one of the offices just off the Great Hall. He had a pile of scrolls before him, and young Ori was hovering nearby, apparently acting as runner.

Fili opened his mouth to speak, but Balin gave him an elbow and made a “Let me, laddie” gesture.

“King Dain,” he began very politely, and the grizzled warrior looked up from the scroll he was perusing.

“Balin The Wise,” he said jovially. “What’s up?”

Balin said, in a conciliatory tone, “We wondered if you could see your way to letting our Gloin be the one to mount the Arkenstone in the throne. It would be a way of thanking him for joining our company and risking all on this adventure. I’m sure it would please him greatly to be noticed in this way.”

Dain nodded. “Certainly. If he needs any tools, tell him to ask Dwabin. He’s got everything. How he carries it all I don’t know…. that old coat of his has more pockets than a wizard.” His attention returned to his task, and he turned to Ori, handing the scroll to him. “Tell the Supply Chief he’s listed this sword twice on the inventory. He can’t do that. It’s either a weapon or it’s an ornament but it can’t be both.”

Balin and Fili waited to see if Dain had any further commentary on the Arkenstone, but he seemed to have said all he had to say on the matter. They both bowed and thanked him, and removed themselves quietly.

Once in an empty passageway, they looked at each other. Rather than being relieved, they were actually more disquieted. Neither of them spoke of it, but Dain’s calm and reasonable tone only threw Thorin’s paranoid possessiveness into greater relief. What’s more, they both suddenly realized how accustomed they had become to tiptoeing around Thorin’s moods.

It wasn’t a pleasant realization.

Fili nodded as if they’d both voiced the thought and agreed on it. But he said only, “I’ll see if Uncle will give the Arkenstone to Gloin.”


	33. Gandalf Returns

Thorin continued to stare down at the traffic around the Lonely Mountain until the sight of a familiar gray hat nearing the entrance of Erebor made his stomach give an unpleasant twist. So, the wizard was coming back to make another attempt to “Free” the Hobbit. Resentment and jealousy heated up still further inside of the Dwarf. He felt as though flames were flickering on the surface of his shoulders and neck, and lighting up his hair.

Fili, unfortunately, picked this moment to return and report that Thorin could now safely hand the Arkenstone over to Gloin, to be mounted in the throne.

Thorin turned and stared at his nephew again, and now he felt like a live torch, as if he were standing there in flames.

“I see,” he said with outward calm, but the fire reflected in his blue eyes, and his attempt at blankness did not fool Fili, who had known him all his young life. Uncle Thorin was quietly melting down, and when he reached a certain point, it would be quiet no longer.

He suddenly remembered Dain’s remark: “You’re going to have to decide how mad a king you’re willing to put up with.”

Fili waited for a long, tense moment.

“And when the Arkenstone is mounted,” Thorin asked in a steely voice, “Who will sit beneath it?”

“You, Uncle,” Fili said instantly.

Thorin gave him a slow nod, as if to say, _I knew you would say that, but you do not fool me._

“Because whoever sits beneath it, rules Erebor,” Thorin said, as if merely pointing something out.

Fili repeated, “That will be you, Uncle.”

“Dain rules, but he reports to me,” Thorin remarked, eyes growing distant. “He reports to me, because I hold the Arkenstone. My hand is the throne.”

Fili was unsure what to say.

Thorin continued as if talking to himself, “and when it is out of my hand, it takes all power with it. The power goes to the throne.”

Fili’s stomach was definitely sick now. “Do you … not trust Dain?” He ventured.

Thorin’s eyes finally came back to him. He assessed the prince for a very long time. Finally he said, “I will give the Arkenstone to Gloin when I am ready.”

Fili did not know whether to push the issue or not. On one level, he, like Balin, hoped that when the Arkenstone was mounted on the throne, and Thorin sat beneath it, the madness would ease. Or some of the insecurity would recede.

But he dared not try to pry it from the king. He seemed to be barely under control. With a start, Fili realized his Uncle was speaking again, but seemed to be speaking more to himself than to his nephew. 

Thorin’s eyes had grown distant again, and his tone was so flat it seemed almost inflectionless. “Now comes the Wizard to take my slave. The Men will take the gold, the Wizard will take my slave, and my own kin will take the Arkenstone. And I shall be left with nothing, having served my purpose.”

A spark of anger finally stirred in Fili. He’d been obedient nephew long enough.

“Do you think I want your throne, Uncle?” He stepped forward to ask, with bite in his tone. “Because I tell you now I am ready to return to the Blue Mountains and be done with this venture! I’m sick of the gold and I’m sick of the worry. I was happier as a tinker!”

And with that, he stomped off, having snapped at his uncle for the first time in his adult life.

Thorin watched him go, eyes speculative. For a refreshing moment, he did not doubt someone’s word. But then he glanced around and remembered that his slave was hiding from him, and that the Wizard was coming to try and take him away again. Instantly his mood blackened once more. He jumped down from the lookout rock and went looking for Bilbo.


	34. A Very Awkward Moment

The Wizard was standing aghast in Thorin’s bedchamber. He’d entered Erebor, been nodded at by Dwalin, who usually guarded the door whether he was on duty or not, and said, “Where might I find our little prisoner?”

Dwalin said grumpily that Thorin usually kept the Hobbit confined to the bedchamber. He meant it as a criticism of the weakness it revealed, but to Gandalf, who gave him a sharp look, it constituted an admission that the king was truly turning into a brute.

“And where is the royal bedchamber?” He asked. 

Dwalin was happy to lead Gandalf up the stairs. It was his most devout hope that the Wizard took that damn Hobbit away once and for all. He winced to see the mighty Thorin Oakenshield devolving to a sex-crazed despot enthralled with one of the least impressive creatures in Middle Earth.

Being Dwalin, he approached the door and opened it without knocking. The Wizard stepped in… and stood aghast.

Bilbo had just emerged from a warm bath. He still hadn’t gotten over the luxury that was cleanliness, and hoped that when Thorin returned, a nice clean Hobbit wrapped only in a damp towel might sweeten his mood.

Unfortunately, it was Gandalf who entered, and Bilbo was not yet wrapped in said towel. He was just reaching for it and his back was turned to the door. His arms and shoulders and back bore the livid bite-marks of Thorin’s teeth. His buttocks and hips were still purple in places from various punishments, many of which had been playful (but a couple of which had not.) And of course, he was still quite thin. He looked … very abused, frankly.

Bilbo heard the indrawn breath behind him and knew at once that it wasn’t Thorin. He snatched up a towel in mortification and whipped it around him faster than a magician, but the damage was done. Gandalf stared at him in horror.

“Oh! Hello!” was all Bilbo could think to say. 

To the Wizard, it was all the more telling that the Hobbit didn’t even seem to know why his friend looked so upset. Clearly, he was accustomed to being bruised and marked this way.

“Um… let me just make myself decent,” Bilbo stammered, blushing, and retreated to the bathing chambers to dress himself.

When he emerged, looking more like himself, Gandalf had made up his mind. “We must leave, Bilbo Baggins. This cannot continue.”

Bilbo looked past him, his face tensing.

From behind the Wizard, Thorin’s voice came with misleading softness. “I see you are here to abscond with my criminal.”

Gandalf turned to see Thorin closing the door behind him. The Dwarf shed his outerwear with an uncharacteristic lack of regard, and tossed it toward a corner. The armor landed with a clatter and he let it lie where it fell. He doffed the blue cloak and dropped it on a chair, and then pulled out a small dagger that usually rested unnoticed on his belt.

Bilbo drew his breath in, but Thorin merely took the dagger and went to his seat by the fire. He sat with it in his hands and brooded down over it. The sight gave his slave a most uneasy feeling, not as if he were threatened, but as if Thorin had become – finally – a threat to himself.

“You are abusing an innocent creature,” Gandalf said, with soft thunder in his voice.

Thorin lifted his eyes to Bilbo without raising his head. Bilbo knew that look.

“Tell him you do not wish to leave me,” the Dwarf said quietly, staring at his slave.

Bilbo went to him immediately, placing his hands on Thorin’s forearms. “I do not wish to leave you,” he repeated reassuringly. He stroked the king’s arms for a moment, trying to think how to ease the dagger from his hands and perhaps replace it with his own small self.

Thorin shot Gandalf a cold look. “Tell him you are happy with me.”

Bilbo stroked the king’s silver streaked black hair lovingly. “I am happy with you, Master Thorin. I’m happy to be your slave,” he parroted, easing the dagger out of the be-ringed hands and placing it on the table.

Gandalf watched the exchange with revulsion.

“I would speak to Bilbo alone,” he said resolutely.

“Tell him you do not wish to speak to him alone!” Thorin snapped jealously.

Bilbo hesitated, and the king gave him a betrayed look. The Hobbit leaned forward and pressed his face to his master’s ear. “I’ll get him to go away,” he whispered, and Thorin’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing more.

Bilbo led Gandalf out of the royal chambers and out onto the terraces for a private talk.


	35. A Private Talk

“Bilbo, you are enslaved.” Gandalf said without preamble. 

It was a beautiful sunset, the Hobbit thought absently, staring at the pink sky as the sun set in the West.

“You know, I… not really. I mean… I don’t work hard. I draw his bath, I pick up his clothes, I work in the garden. It’s like being married, I suppose,” Bilbo joked, but Gandalf did not smile.

“I am not speaking of your workload. I’m speaking of your body and your mind,” said the Wizard in measured tones.

Bilbo gave a rueful laugh. “My body, well… you’ve got me there. Can’t… can’t really say much other than—“ he shrugged. “I’m not unhappy, I mean… “ he couldn’t really meet the Wizard’s eyes.

“And your mind. You are being drawn into Thorin’s madness with him. Your sense of self-preservation is dissolving.” Gandalf stated.

“Um,” Bilbo was mildly offended. “I’ve survived this long,” he reminded his friend. “I was slave to Smaug for years, and no one came to free me.”

Gandalf whirled and stalked to the lookout rock and stared out toward Mirkwood.   
“If I had known, I would have come. And now, more than ever, I wish I had known. Your years of captivity have destroyed your spirit. And now, the first master who offers you the slightest affection can capture your soul.” 

He came back and looked urgently into Bilbo’s eyes. “I have seen it before, you know. The adoration a captive comes to feel for his master. It’s something that happens, you cannot help it, but it is not real and it is not healthy. I will take you back to the Shire and within weeks, you will know it was only your loneliness and fear that made you willing to accept this.”

Bilbo was uncomfortable. “I never loved Smaug,” he assured the Wizard. “I never loved an Orc.”

Gandalf leaned down and stared more intensely at him. “Thorin is going mad, Bilbo. It’s in his blood. The Arkenstone, the gold… the longer he stays in contact with it, the madder he’ll become.”

Bilbo shrugged, acceding this. “Then he needs me, doesn’t he? But… maybe it’s not as bad as you think. I mean, the Arkenstone’s going into the throne even as we speak. I gave it to Gloin just an hour ago.”

Gandalf’s eyes widened. “You did what?”

“He came up and said Thorin wanted him to mount it in the throne, so you see… he CAN let it go. I mean, he’s been holding it and staring at it for weeks, and sometimes he… “ Bilbo caught himself. He’d been about to admit that Thorin liked to take it out and stroke Bilbo’s naked body with it. That was probably too much information, he thought, embarrassed by his near slip.

Gandalf still looked distinctly uneasy. “You gave it to Gloin?” He repeated.

Bilbo shrugged. “Well, yes, he kept it in the writing cabinet and he left the key right next to it, so—“

Gandalf just looked at him. “We need to leave. Now.” He turned from Bilbo in another whirl of gray robes and began climbing up the ragged path that led to one of the lookout posts higher up the mountain.

Bilbo watched him ascend. “What are you doing?” He asked.

The Wizard reached out a hand and from nowhere, a thrush came to him. He spoke quietly to the tiny bird, which cocked its head intelligently at him and then flew away.

Bilbo was concerned. “What… what did you just do?” 

Gandalf began to climb down again. “I summoned an eagle.”

Bilbo sighed impatiently. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Look, Gandalf…. I really don’t want to leave Thorin right now. He needs me.”

Gandalf shot him a look, “Oh, he needs you. And what of your needs?”

“I don’t… I need to be cared for, and he cares for me. He does, he… we… we’re very close,” Bilbo stammered, trying to explain.

“The hangman stands very close to his victims, but in the end, only one of the two is destroyed,” Gandalf told him.

Bilbo sighed. Clearly the wizard was not going to let this go easily. He felt the sudden urge to go check on Thorin. “I’m just going to go see that he’s alright,” he said, turning back toward the entrance of the mountain.

Gandalf had turned away to watch for the oncoming eagle, but when he heard the Hobbit’s last words, he turned back quickly. “NO. Do not go back down there. Bilbo!” He cried, but the Hobbit had already darted back in to go check on his despondent king.


	36. Meltdown

When Bilbo re-entered the royal chambers, Thorin was standing before the writing cabinet, staring into it with wide eyes. He turned his head slowly at his slave’s entrance.

“Where is the Arkenstone?” He asked hoarsely.

Unease stirred in Bilbo’s stomach. He almost said, “I gave it to Gloin,” but settled for the safer, “I think Gloin is mounting it in the throne.”

Thorin stepped away from the cabinet and toward Bilbo, his head cocked wonderingly to the side, his blue eyes piercing. “You gave it to him.”

Bilbo opened his mouth, hesitated, and said, “Yes. He said you wanted him to mount it.”

“And you gave it to him.” Thorin repeated dazedly.

“He said you wanted him to—“

“You opened my writing cabinet with my key, and gave away the Arkenstone.” Thorin repeated, staring at him.

“Okay, let’s not forget you put it in one of my packs so the Elves would all think I was a thief,” Bilbo finally said, with a hint of bite.

Thorin’s look went from stunned to tragic. He picked up the dagger from the table and fingered it for a moment, and then put it in his belt.

“Tell me you have betrayed me,” he said sadly, not looking at Bilbo.

“What? No!” Bilbo said, coming toward him to pet his arms reassuringly. “I thought you had given the order, I never… I have never betrayed you. It’s just being mounted in the throne, in YOUR THRONE. Thorin. Thorin, no one here is betraying you. We love you. We all love you.”

Thorin stood like a statue, staring at the floor. Bilbo took his hand. “Come. Let’s go down and see it. Let’s go look at your Arkenstone in your throne,” his tone became wheedling. “Come and sit on your throne. Come with me. Let me see you on your throne, Master Thorin.”

He coaxed and tugged, and finally, with a look that said all was not forgiven, Thorin went down with Bilbo to look on the throne, with the tapestry before it, and the Arkenstone mounted above it, as in the days of old.

When they descended the stairs that entered the Great Hall nearest the throne, there was a sizable cluster of Dwarves gathered round the throne. Gloin was standing on the arm rests, balanced precariously, and just giving the final polish with a soft cloth. The Arkenstone glowed in its stone setting.

Thorin stepped toward it, and the group of Dwarves parted respectfully to let him pass. He stared up at it as if it was a desert mirage, and he was dying of thirst.

Gloin hopped down from the throne and gave a proud gesture. “What do you think, King Thorin? Did a fine job, if I may say so.”

Oin stepped forward with Thorin’s crown in both hands. “Do you want to do a trial run of the big reveal tomorrow?”

Thorin gave him a strange look and said, “Do you think I am a fool?”

Silence fell. He turned and looked at all of them, one by one, his eyes burning into them. “Do you think I do not know what you are saying when I am not here?!”

They began to glance at each other.

“Yes, that’s right.” Thorin said bitterly, his voice rising. “The Fool knows. He knows what you are saying. He knows what you are planning,” and then he turned and strode off toward the back of the hall, where the last mountains of gold still glittered in piles.

Bilbo gave the assembled Dwarves an apologetic look and ran after him. 

Thorin made straight for the center of the mass and waded into the piles of gold. Slipping and sliding, he walked into the treasure like a man wading into the ocean. When he came to the center, he stood still and stared around him at the remaining coins and gems.

Bilbo came up behind him. Being lighter, he was able to pad more easily over the tops of the piles.

“This is the end,” Thorin said, as his slave drew near.

The Hobbit glanced behind him. Several of the Dwarves had followed, but they were uncertain what to do. They didn’t wish to draw too near or intrude, but nor could they simply walk away as if unconcerned. After a moment, he saw Gandalf descend the stairs and join the hovering party of onlookers.

“What do you mean, the end?” Bilbo asked, reaching out timidly to touch his king’s arm.

“They will strip me of everything,” Thorin said stonily, eyes still drinking in the gold.

“No… no, Thorin, that’s not what’s happening—“

The king took the Hobbit’s hand and drew him close. Bilbo went willingly, and when Thorin scooped him up in his arms, he forced himself not to struggle. The king turned slightly, saw the ring of witnesses, and his eyes narrowed. He sank down in the gold and lay Bilbo on his back, and then moved over him, pinning him on the gold and staring over his head at the watching Dwarves, and Gandalf.

“Now they come for you,” he breathed, pulling the dagger out of his belt.

“Thorin, no, put … put that down. I’m not leaving you. I won’t leave you,” Bilbo reassured him, eyes following that shiny dagger.

“They want your golden hair. They want all the gemstones I have fed you,” Thorin murmured, one hand cradling Bilbo’s head, and the other bringing the dagger up by his shoulder.

“What… fed? No—Thorin, put the dagger down. You can’t … these are your kinsmen! These are your men, they fought with you!” Bilbo protested. He was utterly pinned beneath his king, and he could feel the cold coins and gems beneath his back through his thin, white shirt.

Thorin never took his eyes off the Dwarves. Gandalf drew nearer.

“Thorin Oakenshield, release your captive!” He called out firmly.

The Dwarf lowered his face to Bilbo’s, but kept his eyes unwaveringly on the host of kinsmen who edged nearer cautiously. Fili was of the number, and Dwalin. And Gloin and Nori. Thorin’s eyes flicked from one to the other steadily.

“Tell me,” he whispered to Bilbo, “that you do not wish to leave me.”

Suddenly, tears welled up in the Hobbit’s eyes. “I do not wish to leave you,” he whispered back. 

“Tell me you do not want to be without me,” the king breathed, tightening his grip on his captive’s hair.

“I do not want to be without you.” Croaked Bilbo miserably, because even now, it was true.

“Uncle, please just let us talk in your rooms,” Fili called out. 

“Tell me you do not wish to live without me,” Thorin instructed, and suddenly Bilbo felt the knife’s edge against the side of his neck.

His face went lax with horror, finally realizing the end the mad king envisaged. Thorin glanced down at the Hobbit’s startled eyes.

“Don’t be afraid,” he rasped. “I won’t let them take you. I won’t let you be left alone.”

The knife pressed against his neck a fraction more. Bilbo’s breathing sped up exponentially. 

“Please don’t…. don’t…. don’t do this,” he managed. 

“You won’t be without me. You’ll be in my arms till the last, my treasure.” Thorin promised him softly, his gaze softening as it wandered over the Hobbit’s frightened face.

Seeking to forestall his master, Bilbo said desperately, “But what about you? You’ll be alone without me! I don’t want you to be alone!”

Thorin looked back up to see that Dwalin was drawing closer than the others. Of course he was. He hoped to disarm Thorin before the king hurt himself, but he didn’t care in the slightest if the Hobbit bled all over the gold.

“I won’t be alone for long. They are coming to take everything from me, and they will get it.” Thorin gave a grim little smile. “But I don’t intend to make it easy for them.”

The Hobbit felt ill.

Suddenly, Bilbo heard Gandalf say calmly, “Close your eyes.”

He had a sudden memory of Gandalf’s fireworks, and fearing that either way, he was about to breathe his last, Bilbo closed his eyes.

Thorin glared at Gandalf, and Gandalf looked rather sadly at him before abruptly, violently striking his staff on the floor. A blinding white light flashed through the Great Hall, one that even Bilbo could see through his eyelids. The next moment, he felt Thorin’s weight leave him as Dwalin flew into his king with his entire sturdy body.

Bilbo heard Thorin give a roar of rage and then shout hoarsely, “My eyes! What have you done to my eyes?!”

The Hobbit rolled over and began to crawl blindly, frantically through the gold, his hands slipping on coins and bruising on gemstones. Then a hand grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet. He opened his eyes to see that Gandalf had firm hold of him and was dragging him away from the gold as fast as he could.

Looking back, he saw the king struggling furiously under a pile of Dwarves. They were only trying to restrain him, but it took at least six to do so. He could hear his master roaring.

“Give him back!! Don’t take him!! Don’t take him!! He doesn’t want to go!!” And the Hobbit gave a sob to know that the Dwarf truly thought he was failing his slave.

But the wizard gave him no time for more than a last, agonized look at his king foundering in a pile of gold, restrained by his pitying men. Then he was stumbling out of the gates of Erebor in Gandalf’s grasp. And then he was on top of a large, warm, feathery thing that launched into the air with the terrified Hobbit clutching handfuls of those feathers, feeling the muscles beneath bunch and gather, then flatten, then gather again.

It was night outside the Lonely Mountain. A summer night, warm and soft, and Bilbo could see stars above, and the reflection of the moon on the lake below. Far below. The eagle was taking him home.


	37. The Shire

The flight back to the Shire was about four hours. Bilbo, frightened nearly out of his wits, clutched the eagle’s feathers so tightly, the bird grew irritated and moved his head about impatiently, trying to loosen his grip. But he was on like a tick, and the eagle finally settled on going as fast as he could so as to hurry and dump his uncomfortable load.

It was some time past midnight when the large bird began circling and lowering, dropping altitude in unnecessarily dramatic falls, causing Bilbo to cry out involuntarily, until finally, he found himself summarily divested near a cornfield. The bird literally shook him off like water or ashes or snow.

Bilbo fell to the soft, grassy ground with a thump and the eagle turned its head and gave him a long look, as if thinking “Never picking up one of these again,” and then launched into the air again and was gone. The Hobbit was left lying dazedly in a field with one shining silver feather in his hand (which he held unconsciously the whole stumbling walk out of the fields and back to the residential part of the Shire.)

He followed trails he’d not thought of for years, had not known he knew, had not thought to worry whether he’d remember. He did remember, and, breathing the soft, warm, faintly humid air of home, Bilbo made for the golden squares of lit windows, the air on his skin supernaturally charged with emotion as it is when we know that, after years of exile, we have come back to the nest of our infancy.

Bilbo followed the trail to his own home and saw the lights were on. Someone was living here now. Undoubtedly relatives. He tapped politely on the door, and his cousin Lobelia opened the door to see him standing there, in his shirt and trousers and suspenders, thin and windblown, and carrying nothing but a feather.

She stared at him for a long moment, and then fell over in a dead faint.

* * *

Coming home is always difficult. There are phases. 

The first phase is that in which your relatives treat you like a guest, a long lost guest to whom they are willing to cater, because of course, they were the ones who had given you up for lost, and were now feeling a bit guilty. Guilty for giving up hope. Guilty for not enquiring further. Guilty for how quickly they split up your possessions.

After the initial amazement, wherein they fed Bilbo everything they could get him to eat, and neighbors came by to gaze upon him and muse that he had been a slave to a dragon, but he looked no worse for wear, for all of that. More or less. Rather skinny, but.

Then come the conversations. The “what do we do with this” conversations. The “paperwork seemed to be all in order at the time” conversations. The “having grown accustomed to this manner of life,” conversations, usually including rather bold claims that were abandoned so quickly as to reveal themselves bluffs. The conversations about compensation, and whether or not some changes might be allowed to stand if others were undone and the previous arrangements reinstated. This part was peppered by disputes about the fleeting nature of the previous arrangements, and speculations about contingencies.

At length, a lawyer was summoned, and Bilbo was pronounced alive, and having done nothing deliberately to deserve being declared dead, was pronounced deserving of regaining his private property. 

Of course, his cousin Lobelia and her husband could not quickly find new accommodations, so it was nearly two months before Bilbo was finally in full possession of his own home. Most of his own furniture was returned to him-- although an awful lot of small family heirlooms had disappeared. Grandma Took’s blue willow casserole bowl (with matching cover), which had long served as a candy dish on the little bar in Bilbo’s breakfast nook, had vanished. Now, one suspiciously like it held soap in Lobelia’s new guest bathroom. And the little metal cowbell that had been his Aunt’s and had served as a paperweight in his writing desk now hung on the inside of his cousin’s back door, to ring an announcement if anyone entered.

But Bilbo let it go. He was home. He was safe. It was quiet. He had regained some of the weight he’d lost and could actually sleep on his side again without his knees hurting each other. He had clothes again, several different outfits, and they were soft and clean, and smelled of the outdoors because he hung them on the line to dry.

And he did have to hand it to Lobelia: she’d taken good care of his garden. His stove was a mess and he’d had to scrub the encrusted grime of her cooking off it…. But the garden, well. It bore vegetables and herbs so readily, he took her baskets full of whatever he didn’t eat.

She was actually gracious about it, and gave him some of her husband’s tobacco for his pipe.

Bilbo Baggins was home. Home in Bag End.

He rested. He got his paperwork caught up and in order. He picked through his childhood treasures and mused over them. He reacquainted himself with the local merchants, and his neighbors. He looked at the sunset every night as he smoked his pipe. He let his body heal. He let his mind wander. And he wondered what happened to Thorin after his departure.

Did he get better? Did he get worse? Bilbo wished he knew.


	38. An Unexpected Delivery

Another month went by quietly. The Harvest came, and the Hobbits were celebratory. Bilbo watched the festivities from his little front yard, and occasionally went down and partook of the camaraderie. He donated two fine pumpkin pies to the raffle to raise money to dig a new drainage ditch for a widow (who was a Bunce before she was married, and so a very distant relative.) And he willingly bought rock candy from the little Hobbit kinder who sold it door to door for spending money.

But for the most part, he was solitary. This was not a hardship; Bilbo had always been rather independent, and thus regarded as potentially strange. Oh, he’d been respectable enough as a younger Hobbit, but the Shire had always assessed personalities very keenly. Hobbits knew who was a miser and who was a spendthrift. Who helped others and who always seemed to need helping. Who had never had a heartthrob and who tended to help themselves to other Hobbit’s spouses. And Bilbo had always been rated as one of those likely to go off and have an adventure.

Well, they joked, he’d certainly had one! Slave to a dragon, my-my. But home again and writing in his diary, smoking his pipe. Very quiet. Kept to himself more than ever.

There were those among the Hobbits who weren’t convinced that Bilbo’s adventuring days were entirely over. He seemed like he might just go off again one day. At least, that’s what the old Hobbits down at the coffee shop and in the barber’s chairs speculated.

The speculation intensified when a mysterious package was delivered to the Shire’s only post office, looking battered and tied with twine. The return address was Erebor, the Lonely Mountain. Oh yes, where he’d been a slave!

The Hobbits joked that the dragon’s estate may have left him a legacy. Rather a nice dragon, to do that, eh? They grinned at each other, and elbowed each other, and then watched with curious eyes when Bilbo came to the Post Office, looking puzzled, with a ticket in his hand to redeem his mysterious delivery. They watched him pad back to his Hobbit Hole with it in his hands. 

Back home, Bilbo took the package to his dining room table and cut the twine with shaking hands. Please, please, he begged silently, and then didn’t know what he was begging for.

Inside the package were several items: the book Ori’d given him when Gandalf had tried to free him the first time. The bundles of seeds that Bofur had given him, and a note from Bofur. A smaller package which turned out to contain several of Thorin’s rings, a note from Bombur, the red jacket they had made him, and a letter from Ori.

Bilbo checked through it again, hoping to find a letter from Thorin, but there was none. His heart sank a little, but he laid the thoughtful treasures out on the table, blinked the moisture from his eyes, and set the notes in a neat pile.

Then he made himself some tea, stalling, both anticipating the pleasure of the notes, and dreading what they might contain.

He finally sat down with a nice cup of tea, and a plate of scones, and, taking a deep breath, began opening the notes.

Bombur’s was a short note hoping he was doing well, and a recipe for the famous oatmeal and raisin cookies. It turned out that even the Elves of Mirkwood had begun ordering cookies from Erebor. Bombur thought Kili had something to do with it, because he and Tauriel spent a lot of time traveling back and forth between Erebor and Mirkwood. Oh, they were married now! No babies though. Probably couldn’t have any, but they didn’t seem to care. But anyway, his cookies were a grand success, and apparently King Thranduil especially had developed a taste for them, though no one quite knew how that could have happened.

Bilbo’s face split into a grin. Then he opened Bofur’s note. It read:

_There once was an Elf Prince named Leg-o-lass_  
_Whose hair was as blond as a City lass_  
_He walks like a stork_  
_But he fights like an Orc_  
_And that’s why I don’t grab that pretty ass._

Bilbo laughed so hard he cried, and had to wipe the tears off his face with a napkin. 

Finally, he opened Ori’s letter. He’d saved it for last because he could tell at a glance it contained more writing than the other two. It read thusly:

_Dear Bilbo,_

_I hope you are well and happy! I hope you aren’t lonely without us! I miss you, but if you are happy then it’s for the best. The terraces are looking good because Dain’s Supply Department are taking good care of them, and a lot of females have come from the Blue Mountains and Moira._

_I wanted to write to you about Thorin. Gandalf said I shouldn’t, so I didn’t for a long time. But Gandalf has left now and I’ve been thinking and I don’t know if I agree with him about you and Thorin needing to be kept apart. I hope I’m not doing the wrong thing. I don’t want to do the wrong thing and I don’t want to hurt anyone but I think you should know what happened._

_After Gandalf sent you away, things got really bad for Thorin. He was out of his mind for weeks, and he got very violent. Dain and Balin had him locked in a cell in the dungeon, and I know that sounds bad but he was so wild that we couldn’t do anything else with him. He tried to kill everyone who came near him. He would roar about the Arkenstone, and then about you, and then about the gold, and then he’d start all over again._

_They put a soft mattress, and pillows and blankets in his cell, and tried to make it comfortable and they fed him the best food, but he did still have to spend almost a month in the cell so he didn’t hurt anyone._

_Finally he got very quiet and depressed, and after about a week of that Dwalin said he thought it was safe to let him out. But Dain said that he needed to be gotten away from Erebor. He said the gold fever was like a drug and that Thorin would never really be cured of it, he just had to be kept away from it. So for a few days we all tried to figure out what to do._

_We agreed that Thorin couldn’t be king. It was really sad. We wanted him to. We felt like he deserved it, and it was his birthright, and he was the one who had led us though all those hardships and fought so bravely. He was a true leader, until he saw those piles of gold. It ruined him, it really did. We were all really sad about it. I guess gold actually is like a drug for some folks._

_And then Fili said something that shocked us all. He said he didn’t want to be king either, and that the gold affected him too, and that if he was king he was afraid he would become like Thorin. He said he wanted to go back to the Blue Mountains and just be a tinker like he’d been before. He said that he thought his uncle should go back too, and that he (Fili) would take care of him. They used to have an ironsmith trade and Thorin used to live in apartments behind his shop in the mountains near his sister Dis. Fili said he thought he should go back home (he said that was really home, not here. For him anyway.) He said that if Thorin went back home he might be his old self again, as long as he was kept away from gold and the Arkenstone._

_No one said anything about you being bad for him, though. I just want you to know that. Well, Dwalin did, and Gandalf, but no one else. And later when those two weren’t around, Bofur said he thought you had nothing to do with it and it was mostly just the gold and the Arkenstone._

_So anyway, Fili packed up a few things but not very much. He took some gold for himself and Thorin but he put it in a box where Thorin wouldn’t see it, and he left behind Thorin’s rings and crown and mostly just took what he’d had when he’d left the Blue Mountains in the first place. Then they gave Thorin some wine with something Tauriel put in it and it knocked him out cold! They took him out of his cell and put him in a cart, and Fili said good-bye to us all and drove away with him. Just like that._

_This was about the very end of summer. We got a letter eventually from Fili saying that they had gotten back to the Blue Mountains and Thorin was living with his sister. Fili said that when Thorin woke up they were halfway through Mirkwood and he was worried that Thorin would try to run off and would get lost, so he chained him to the wagon before he woke up. He said Thorin wasn’t very happy about it but he took it pretty well and when they started getting closer to home he thought his uncle even seemed kind of happy._

_They passed near by where you live but Thorin said not to stop and I think it’s because he’s afraid to see you. I know he wants to see you because he ranted about you the whole time he was in the dungeon, and all about getting you back and being together. But now he’s afraid. I don’t know if he’s afraid he’ll get obsessed about you again or if he’s afraid you hate him._

_But I decided that I would send you his rings. They aren’t gold or even gems, they’re metal. He made them himself when he was a smithy and we had to take them off him when he was crazy because if you have ever been punched when he’s wearing those rings, it hurts! But you could take them to him, if you wanted to._

_I’m not trying to tell you what to do because I just want you to be happy. But if you miss Thorin and you want to see him, he is back at his smithy in the Southside of Belegost, on Brandywine street, near the Thalos river. If you find the Pig & Whistle that’s right on the river, they know him._

_But if you don’t want to I understand, because he did almost cut your throat. But he’s much calmer now. So anyway… I hope you are well and happy and if you ever want to write back I would be glad to hear from you. Sincerely, Ori_


	39. A Good Long Think

Bilbo drew in a deep breath. There was much to think about. He finished his tea and scones, carefully NOT thinking about it till he was finished. Once he was by his fireplace for the evening, in a rocking chair, then he was ready to think about it.

The first thing to think about was himself. Should he see Thorin? He sat and stared into the fire and thought.

Those years he was a slave were a long, dark, lonely time. Usually hungry. Usually uncomfortable. Often worried. Occasionally terrified. Sometimes just bored. But it was a long, dark, lonely time.

Then he was Thorin’s, and he was only with Thorin a few short weeks, but those weeks stood out in his memory like … well… like a single gold coin lying alone in the dirt. His very skin remembered Thorin’s touch… and remembered it pretty fondly, to be honest. He’d spent many a night sprawled out on his bed, remembering. With his hand down his pants, truth be told.

And he’d liked how tactile the Dwarf was. Liked waking up under him, so warm and heavy. He’d liked being snatched up and set in the royal lap, liked the feel of his beard, liked scrubbing the king’s back in the tub, and washing his hair. Loved tending to his hair, in fact. Liked eating at the same table with their feet sometimes touching underneath. 

He had even grown to like their strange verbal dances, Tell me you want this (I want this, I want this) Tell me this feels good (Oh God, it feels good, I want you to do this to me even harder)… he blushed remembering some of them. He remembered those blue eyes, how dark they could seem even though the color was so clear.

And the scent of him. He missed Thorin’s scent. It had got in his nostrils and now he wanted to smell it again.

So yes, he wanted to see Thorin again. But was it just the bond of a slave who has finally been shown some affection?

He wasn’t a slave now. He’d been free for three months. He’d been paying bills, cleaning his house and doing small repairs, working his garden, running errands, making decisions, talking to other Hobbits, and living a normal life.

He wasn’t unhappy about anything. Other than missing Thorin.

Well, he decided… I think I miss Thorin and I want to see him and it won’t hurt me.

So that was that.

Now for the second thing to think over, and this was harder: would it be good or bad for Thorin to see him?

Was he something that could make Thorin relapse into gold sickness? Mostly, Bilbo thought that no, that’s silly, my so-called golden hair is just a dishwater brown mop, and I am not a treasure. I’m just a Hobbit.

But would seeing him bring back memories painful to Thorin? Was he linked to the treasure in the Dwarf’s mind, because if he was, it didn’t matter that he was just a Hobbit. He didn’t want to hurt Thorin.

Suddenly, Bilbo appreciated what Ori must have gone through in deciding to write that letter. In fact… he went back to the table, grabbed the letter and read it again. And then he felt that he really must sleep on it, and not decide right away. Better to think it over. So with that, Bilbo blew out all his candles and went to bed.


	40. A Decision Was Apparently Made

When Bilbo awoke the next morning, he had his breakfast, and then he packed a great deal of food and a change of clothes, and before he could really ask himself what he was doing, he was passing the Post Office to notify them that they should hold his mail for a few weeks and not declare him dead again, please.

And then it seemed that his feet were heading for the Blue Mountains and taking him with them. It was a three-day walk, so he felt that he had plenty of time to think it over and turn back if it seemed that he should. And that was good, because he wanted to think it over very carefully.

Except that a human messenger on a fast horse came galloping up and before Bilbo understood how it happened, he had apparently flagged him down, and offered the fellow some gold to plop him up on the horse in front of him and carry him a ways. Which he did, which is how a Hobbit got from the Shire to the Blue Mountains in seven hours flat.

It was also why he could barely walk when he staggered into the Pig & Whistle, a fine old establishment on a cobblestone street along the river, to get directions to the Oakenshield Forge and Smithy. The Dwarf who kept the bar was so bushy with hair, Bilbo could barely discern his face. He addressed the nose between the eyebrows and beard, and the whole thing nodded cheerfully.

“Thorin’s place? Come to see our local celebrity, eh? Oh aye, you go down that way, keep by the river, and when you get to Brandywine just turn left and head uphill. You have to turn left. If you turn right, you’ll go into the river, see?”

Bilbo saw.

“And it’ll be on the left. Green door, big windows with lots of little panes. There’s no sign, but if you cross Lakeview, you went too far.”

Bilbo thanked him, then ordered a drink and downed it, partly to give patronage and partly to bolster his nerve. Then he left a coin on the bar, shouldered his pack, and headed off along the river. He got some strange glances, a little Hobbit in the land of Dwarves, but nothing too intense. The races of Middle Earth usually tolerated each other well enough if there was no reason not to. 

And with the reclaiming of Erebor, Dwarves were in a good mood in general. Even those who weren’t interested in going had relatives going, and there was a general atmosphere of triumph in the city. Bilbo went along unmolested, found Brandywine, and his heart started racing in earnest. He inhaled, set his shoulders, and turned left.

He trudged up the hill, found the smithy with the green door, and went inside.

The front parlor of the smithy was like a small odds and ends store, with shelves of tools, nails, and screws, and jars of buttons and knobs, a wall mounted with ropes and line here, and bottles of grease and oil there. The floors were stone and there was nothing shiny or bright anywhere, but there was plenty to look at. A long, narrow table in the center stocked with leather gloves, and sturdy suspenders and belts, and rolled up pieces of canvas of varying size. And a smell of oil and wood burning and smelted metal drifted rather pleasantly about the place.

Behind the counter, whittling something, was Fili. He looked up when the Hobbit entered and said, “Hi, what can I—“ and froze. His blue eyes widened and he immediately glanced at an open door behind him that led deeper into the establishment. He hopped off his stool and hastily shut the door. Then he turned to stare at the Hobbit again.

Bilbo came forward uncertainly. His head felt a little light. “Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” whispered Fili, eyes still wide. “um… is my uncle expecting you?”

Bilbo shook his head. Fili inhaled mightily and nodded.

“Right. Alright.” They both just stood for a moment.

Bilbo looked around approvingly and then smiled. “It’s a very nice shop you have here.”

Fili glanced around. “Oh. Yes. Thank you. Yeah, we… we expanded when we came back, I mean, it was pretty good before but I took the gold—“ he glanced over his shoulder as if he didn’t even want Thorin to hear the word. He lowered his voice and continued. “I took it and put it into the shop and we built on this front part… it used to be a porch, you know, but we enclosed it and then I started buying up odds and ends to sell—“ He stopped, feeling as though he were babbling, although Bilbo had been listening with interest. The Hobbit always did like seeing progress and activity.

They were silent for a moment. Finally Bilbo licked his lips and said, “How is he?”

“He’s good,” Fili stated. “He’s good, he’s much better now. We kind of have things arranged in a good way. I handle the finances, and he works the forge, and he makes things. He likes metal. He’s starting to learn how to forge weapons now. He got some ideas from the Iron Hills Dwarves, you know they have their own styles of swords and armor and such. Different handguards—“ he stopped himself again. Then he said, “How are you?”

“Oh, fine, fine.” Bilbo smiled. “Got my house back. Kicked all my relatives out of it,” he added wryly.

Fili’s handsome young face lit up with honest amusement.

“Have my garden now,” Bilbo added.

“You look good,” Fili said. “Healthier.”

“I am. I am.” Bilbo looked around at the shop again.

Finally Fili said, “Do you want to—I mean—can I just—“ he jerked his thumb over his shoulder and said, “Can I just let him know? I mean… we try not to surprise him with … things.”

Bilbo hesitated. “I’m afraid he’ll avoid me if he knows I’m here. And I suppose… I suppose I should give him the chance, but… I really don’t want to. I want… I guess I’m being selfish but I think he owes it to me to give me what I want this once. And I want to see him,” he finished boldly, rather surprising himself.

Fili’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and he said with a slight smile, “He always said you had more bite than people realized.”

Bilbo felt like his stomach was floating upward. “He’s spoken about me?”

“Oh yes. He said you gave as good as you got, and you were a big soul in a little body.”

The Hobbit’s nose started to sting inside, like it does when one is in danger of tearing up.

He swallowed and nodded toward the door. “May I go back?”

Fili rubbed his hands together nervously and said, “Be careful. I can’t really say how he’ll react. I honestly don’t know.”

Bilbo nodded understandingly, and said, “Can I just put this here?” He laid aside his bundle.

“Sure, sure,” Fili said hastily, and then said… “You know it’s actually about time to close up anyway, so I’ll just lock up and head home—“ he pointed in a vaguely uphill direction. “We live up the road here, and Uncle lives in the rooms in the back, like before. So I’ll just—“ he seemed eager to be out of the shop before Thorin and Bilbo met, so Bilbo waited patiently while the young Dwarf shed his apron and hung it up on a hook behind the counter, and then came around with a set of keys. He turned the sign in the door to CLOSED, and prepared to step out. He looked back one more time to say, “If you need, our house is up there on the right, and it has a green door just like this one. We painted them to match so—“

Bilbo smiled and nodded. “I got it.”

“Okay.” Fili said, darting another nervous glance at the door behind the counter. “Good luck,” he added, and then slipped out, closed the door, turned the key in the lock and then, with one last peek in the window at the Hobbit, turned and headed up the cobblestone street.


	41. Gandalf Would Not Approve

Bilbo went through the door, his nerves alert and his senses primed. The forge was a large room, basically carved into a mountainside. There were no windows, but there was fire in the huge oven at the back, and lanterns mounted on the walls. It was very much like Erebor, really. But simpler. No fancy arches carved into the doorways or ceiling, and much more of thick wooden logs creating square framing for entrances and hallways. There was nothing golden or luxurious about it, but much that was solid and heavy and meant to be as comfortable as possible. Chair and tables lacked the elegant curved ornamentation of Erebor, but were worn smooth and almost silky with years of use, and wax polish. There was a great deal of metal, mostly iron and bronze. Nothing seemed merely ornamental, to Bilbo’s quick glance around, but everything useful and simple and sturdy. It was nice. Warm. No furs, though there was leather. Everything textile seemed woven. A different era than Erebor, he realized. It occurred to him that he didn’t know or had never really thought about Dwarven history, and things like styles and eras. Hobbit culture didn’t really change much over the centuries.

And standing at a table with his back to him, polishing some finished item with a cloth, was Thorin. He stood with his legs braced apart, his feet clad in rubber boots. His simple spun trousers were dark and rather loose, and tucked into the boots. His shirt, too, was of coarse weave and the dull color of natural fiber. A leather vest protected his garments. His hair streamed down unchanged, and he was absorbed in his task.

Bilbo waited for a moment, giving himself one last chance to look around and assess the situation before alerting Thorin to his presence. Then he shut the door with a firm click.

Thorin’s hands stopped moving and his head lifted as if he knew instinctively that it was not Fili or a customer behind him. He put down the item he was polishing (it looked like a bit of armor. Shin guard? Bilbo didn’t know.)

When he finally turned to see Bilbo standing there, Thorin’s eyes got very wide, much as Fili’s had. He turned completely, standing with his back to the table as if he would retreat, but couldn’t back up any farther. His eyes took in the Hobbit standing modestly before him in his simple traveling attire, and the red coat. Thorin’s mouth opened as if he would speak, but then it just looked like he was trying to get enough air to not faint.

“Hello?” Bilbo tried tentatively.

Thorin blinked a few times and then dropped his gaze and turned away. He staggered to the nearest chair, pulled it out and sank into it. His face had grown rather white and he fixed his gaze on the table and just sat there.

Bilbo began to worry that he had not, after all, done the right thing.

“Thorin?” He asked, coming forward slowly.

The Dwarf turned his face away slightly. His hands were flat on the table and he was just breathing.

Bilbo approached until he was close enough to touch. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he had not prepared anything to say. That he had nothing in particular to say, not with words, anyway. That what he wanted was touch. So he reached out and put one hand on Thorin’s arm.

The Dwarf inhaled unsteadily, but did not react otherwise. Bilbo tightened his grip. The muscles beneath his hand were rigid. 

The Hobbit brought up his other hand and stroked the long, silky black hair with it. Thorin tipped his head back slightly, accepting the caress, leaning into it slightly. Bilbo stroked some more, his other hand sliding higher up Thorin’s arm.

“I always loved your hair,” he said softly. Then he leaned forward and took a nice sniff of it. “And how you smell. I’ve missed it so much.”

Finally, Thorin turned his face to the Hobbit, looking up at him with fearful but searching eyes.

Bilbo brought both of his hands to the Dwarf’s head, running his fingers gently over the braids, down to the beads at the bottoms of them. Even the beads were no longer of gold or silver, but black jet, or bronze. “Are these new? These are nice,” Bilbo breathed, his hands drifting to touch Thorin’s face.

The Dwarf’s hands came up as if of their own accord and settled themselves on Bilbo’s waist. Careful at first, and then, upon the Hobbit’s encouraging smile, they tightened and drew him forward until he was settled comfortably in Thorin’s lap, wrapped in his arms. They stared into each other’s faces in silence for a moment.

Then Bilbo leaned up and kissed the tense face that hovered over him. Then he kissed it again, and again, until finally Thorin’s muscles relaxed and he sank forward and returned the kisses ardently. Things grew very hot very quickly. It wasn’t long before Thorin’s hand was buried in Bilbo’s curls and he had a tight handful.

“Tell me you …” Thorin stopped, breathing fast and looking overwhelmed, suddenly afraid to go on.

Bilbo wriggled luxuriously in the Dwarf’s hard grip.

“I want to be with you,” he whispered. “I want to be yours again. I don’t want us to be apart anymore.”

Thorin crushed the Hobbit against his chest and buried his face in his neck. “Do you forgive me?”

“I wasn’t angry to start with,” Bilbo whispered with a little laugh. “I never was. I was only afraid for us both.”

Thorin seemed intent on smothering him with kisses and squeezes.

“But I was bad. I was a bad master, a bad king, a bad Dwarf.” He said brokenly.

“Excellent lover, though. My God, the things you made me do, you pervert,” Bilbo rejoined adoringly, stroking his master’s face.

Thorin dissolved into what looked like laughter, although there was clearly an emotionally quavery element to it. He hid his face in Bilbo’s hair for a moment.

“I’d write it down but I’d get arrested,” Bilbo added, squirming in Thorin’s tight hold.

Thorin sniffled and said, “But really, I was a monster to you. I was sick inside. I was horrible—I thought you must hate me.”

Bilbo twisted around impatiently until he was straddling his lover and then drew himself up against him tightly, burying his hands in Thorin’s hair and kissing his neck, inhaling his spicy scent. “Mm yes. Hate you. Hate you so much.” He gave the long hair a gentle pull.

Thorin couldn’t stop grinning. “Tell me I’m a monster.”

Bilbo nibbled his ear, “You’re a monster, Thorin Oakenshield. You're sick and nasty. You’ve done horrible things to me, disgusting. Brutal. You make me helpless and oh how I hate you for it—“

Thorin bit his lips for a moment, trying to control himself with a hot, squirming Hobbit wrapped around him, rubbing itself against his body. Finally, with a groan, he launched himself to his feet, Bilbo’s legs wrapped around him like a belt, and carried his clinging armful through a hallway in the back of the forge and into a fairly large but shadowy room that featured a fireplace, a small dining area, a heavy wooden wardrobe, and a very large wooden-framed bed. 

He dropped them both down on the bed and pulled Bilbo’s head back by the hair so he could kiss those lips again.

“Take your clothes off,” he directed, and then sat up to kick off his boots and slide his vest off his shoulders. When he turned back to the bed, he literally gasped. Bilbo had shed his clothes like lightning and now lay, plump and smooth and beautifully naked. Thorin stared at him, how white he glowed in the light from the dim, flickering fire.

“Oh Mahal,” he’d never seen Bilbo healthy. The Hobbit grinned and flipped over, flaunting his plump buttocks and smooth back.

“Look at me,” he said. “Not a mark on me. I’ve been doing whatever I want for three months and no one dares stop me. I’ve gotten terribly accustomed to being sneaky and rude. You’ll have to learn to put up with it.”

“Will I?” Thorin asked wonderingly, putting his hand on those firm, round cheeks.

“You might,” Bilbo said challengingly.

Thorin tightened his grip warningly on one buttock.

“Tell me you want to be taken in hand,” he said. “Tell me you need to be corrected.”

Bilbo arched his back teasingly. “I need you to take me in hand again, Thorin.” He said provocatively, staring up at him. “I need you to make me a good Hobbit… if you can.”

Thorin hesitated one last time. “But I’m a bad Dwarf,” he warned Bilbo.

“Yes you are,” Bilbo said immediately. “Disgusting, deviant, brutish, and rough, really—“

Thorin’s eyes gleamed and he snatched the Hobbit onto his lap with rough hands. “You!” he said, “You… you….” And that was the beginning of a very long, hot night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, folks, I just had to get this out of my system.


End file.
